


Interludes

by ZeugmaofOZ



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Banter, Canon Compliant, Drama, F/M, Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Love, POV First Person, Philosophy, Present Tense, Psychological Drama, Romance, Sexual Tension, Spiritual, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 51,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeugmaofOZ/pseuds/ZeugmaofOZ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The untold chronicles of Anders, f!Hawke and Justice: three souls in two bodies trying to become one. A journey through time and memory in alternating POV. Part One: The Spaces Between</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

_Author's Note: All Dragon Age 2 characters are copyright (c) BioWare – many thanks to them for creating a complex and engaging fantasy world and allowing me to play in it's sandbox._

  
  
  


  
**Hawke**   


  
  


   
I have to close the distance.  
   
I can hear his footsteps approaching. They are slow and deliberate, a predator tracking its prey. Leaves crack and the occasional twig softly snaps underfoot. I have only a vague idea of where he is, but my instinct reaches for it as though through a foggy veil. I try to slow the rapid pounding in my chest. Clutching the rough bark of the tree behind me, I hold my breath.  
   
Then silence.  
   
“Found you,”  
   
My heart skips a beat. I curse to myself. It's now or never, Hawke. Move!  
   
I lunge to the side and hurl a dagger in the direction of the voice just as the bolt zaps past me, mere inches from my head. I scramble behind another tree. Just ahead, I see the tree that was almost me. The still-sizzling spark of electricity and smoke waft up from where his lightning struck. It has cleaved a deep split into the trunk, cracked edges charred black and white.  
   
“Not too shabby, rogue.”  
   
I take a chance to quickly peek out. Anders is standing ten paces away, leaning on his staff. He is grinning at my knife, which has lodged itself at eye level in the tree just next to him.  
   
“You almost had me that time. Is that the best you can do?”  
   
“Oh, you ain't seen nothin' yet,” I step out from behind my tree to face him.  
   
He shakes his head. “Never mess with a mage,”  
   
“I swear, if you say that one more time...” I throw a miasmic flask at his feet and dash away as the explosion conceals my escape up a nearby tree.  
   
Anders leaps back, coughing. Below me, I can see him sweep his staff in an arc around him, clearing away the smoke. He assumes a wide, defensive stance and looks about.  
   
“How long are we to play this game, Hawke? Isn't it time we started getting serious about this?” He calls out into the forest. I chuckle quietly. He has no clue where I am. Poor sod.  
   
“Not long, now,” I whisper, getting ready.  
   
My last dagger in hand, I shove off the tree and dive downwards, aimed straight for his head. In an instant, there is a flash of blue light as I see his staff pointed up at me. Before I can react, the blazing fireball strikes me square on. I am thrown back who knows how far before I can feel some branches break my fall. Then I am lying on the forest floor, the leaves and sky blurring above. The faces of my companions fill my vision.  
   
“How on Thedas did we get here?” I ask myself before my eyes cloud over into darkness.


	2. Between Rage and Serenity

 

**Justice**

“ _I do not trust them, Anders.”_

 

“ _I know you don't.”_

 

“ _We work better alone.”_

 

“ _So you say. But I don't see as we have much of a choice if we want to save Karl.”_

 

“ _You take a great risk in this, mage. I do not understand why.”_

 

“ _Karl Thekla risked his life to save mine, remember? I would never have escaped if it weren't for him. It's the least I can do in return.”_

 

“ _Very well. But that woman: she is only using you for the maps. When this is over, she will turn on you.”_

 

“ _We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. If we come to it. The fact is, they have just as much to lose as we do. You saw: her sister is an apostate, too - and so is the Dalish elf.”_

 

“ _The blood mage, you mean. You can practically smell the grip of the demon upon her.”_

 

“ _Hey, it's not like I'm promising them lifelong companionship, Justice. This is a one-time-only deal. And if they report me, I'll report them. Plain and simple,”_

 

“ _Your mortal, human relationships are rarely plain and never simple.”_

 

“ _Enough, spirit! Here they come. Now be quiet and remember who's in charge this time – I don't need you distracting me.”_

 

I say nothing so as to make no promises.

 

Three people approach us on the steps of the chantry and my host motions them towards a dark corner. In the shadows, I can see that it is the Fereldan woman - the leader, followed by her mage sister and that smiling dwarf with a large crossbow strapped to his back.

 

“Hawke,” Anders whispers, nodding to the others, “thanks for coming. My sources have traced Karl to a second floor room in the East wing.”

 

“Alright,” the woman named Hawke says and turns to her companions. “I'll go with Anders to search for Karl. Bethany, you head for the altar – pretend to pray there for a minute before following us. Varric, you'll enter last and keep an eye out for templars. We'll meet you both on the second floor.”

 

“You don't have to tell me or Bianca twice,” the dwarf replies, patting his crossbow.

 

“Ready? Then let's go,” Hawke says, opening the chantry doors. “Lead the way, Anders,” she whispers to me once we are inside. It takes a moment to get used to the dim candlelight of the sanctuary. The walls are lined with red tapestries and ornate columns. The smell of incense wafts through the air. Just past the statue of Andraste, there is a stairwell to the right.

 

Together, we make our way upstairs as quietly as we can. Once on the second floor, however, the whole floor is marble and every step we take echoes down the hall. Taking care to tread softly, we finally reach the room.

 

“Go ahead. I'll keep watch,” Hawke whispers. The wide doorway is open and Anders steps inside.

“Karl?” he asks the robed figure facing the fireplace. “We're going to get you out of here. Now.”

 

“Anders,” replies the man, “they said you would come.”

 

It is not until Karl turns around and Hawke hisses from the door, “They know we're here!” that the sun-shaped brand on Karl's forehead can be seen. He has been made Tranquil.

 

We are too late. I can feel disbelief, then anger, welling up from the heart of my host. “No,” Anders says, shaking his head, “not you. You were harmless. How could they?”

 

I am losing myself to the heat growing inside. Who am I again? Justice? Anders? I do not remember. All I know is that this is not right. Something must be done.

 

“I was wrong to help you, Anders. They showed me that,” the Tranquil mage continues in his monotone voice. “You are too rebellious. Only the Circle can help you find peace,”

 

No. This cannot be happening.

 

They used him to get to me. They did this to punish me.

 

Templars did this.

 

The sound of crossbow bolts firing and blades clashing grows nearer. “Anders!” Hawke backs into the room, followed by two templars in full armour. She lashes out at them with her daggers but they evade and do not back down. “Do something!”

 

Seeing them enter, I burst forth upon them. Who am I?

 

I am pure rage.

 

I am an unquenchable flame.

 

“You will pay for what you have done!” I roar. Drawing as much mana as I can muster, I hurl a fireball at my enemies. They stagger back and Hawke leaps forward to stab into the space below their helmets. They collapse to the floor in a spray of blood.

 

“Maker's breath,” Hawke exclaims, staring at me, “what are you?” but I ignore her and charge into the hallway.

 

More templars are running up the stairs. Varric and Bethany are backed into a corner. I can feel the health draining from them. Hawke runs past me to throw an explosive flask at the feet of their attackers. I use the moment's distraction to send healing energy out of my hands, across the room and into them. Amidst the smoke, everything becomes a whirl of blood, armor, hands and staves. All except the relief, then terror on the faces of the dwarf and mage when they see me.

 

When the world comes back into focus there are a dozen fallen templars strewn across the blood-soaked rug. I am down on one knee, shaking. There is a hand on my shoulder.

 

“Anders?” I look up into Hawke's concerned face. Karl is standing beside her.

 

“My friend,” he says, more like himself again. “Thank-you. I don't know how you did it, but it's as though you brought a piece of the Fade to me again. But I can feel it slipping away.” He falls to his knees beside me, “Please, Anders. Quickly, now. Kill me. I'd rather die like this than live without feeling.”

 

The last thing I remember is my hand reaching for the knife at my belt and thrusting it upwards into his chest, followed by Karl's words as the life drains out of him.

 

“Don't blame yourself for this.”

 

* * *

 

Everything is hazy, but I think I am in the Circle tower in Ferelden. Karl is with me. There is a musty tome in my hands. It has yellowed pages upon which are patterned markings I cannot understand. He is explaining what they say, but they are only incoherent sounds to me. I see flashes of many long hours passing like this with him as my tutor, patient and kind. Debating me on matters of Philosophy. Instructing me in the use of medicinal herbs. Showing me how to control my magic. Teaching me how to fight.

 

But my feet feel heavy, and my ankles are cold. I look down and see shackles around my them, chained to a heavy, metal weight.

 

“You run away too much, Anders,” he says to me with his warm smile.

 

“I am not Anders,” I try to say. I can feel the words forming in my throat, but no sound comes out. Karl cannot hear me.

 

“But there will come a day, my young friend,” he continues, “when you will need to stop running. On that day, you will stand your ground and fight.”

 

“What is there worth fighting for?” I hear escape from my lips.

 

“You must find that out for yourself,” he replies.

 

Then I see Karl pacing about, anxious. Listening at the tower door. Looking out the window. I see a key in his weathered hands unlocking my feet from their bindings. I hear a click and the sharp rattle of chains as they fall onto the stone floor. I feel myself lighten, although a pack has been placed upon my back. I hear Karl's voice whispering. He is shaking me about the shoulders, telling me it is time to run.

 

* * *

“I'm afraid that's the best I can do,” I hear a distant female voice say.

  
My eyes open to a blur of browns and greys. I feel a hard cot beneath me. I blink. Anders is in control again. I am in his Darktown clinic, which is currently empty of patients. The sisters Hawke are standing over us. Healing energy has just finished flowing from Bethany's hands.

 

“Anders,” Hawke kneels down beside me. “Good. You're all right. Bethany, could you give us a minute?” Her sister nods and walks towards the door where the dwarf, Varric, is standing.

 

“What happened?” Anders asks, shaking the haze from his head and attempting to rise. Hawke grabs him by the elbow and helps him sit up.

 

“I was kind of hoping _you_ could tell _me_ ,” she says. “You passed out back there. In the chantry. But not before going all enraged and...glowy. You also spoke with a different voice.”

 

“That's because it wasn't my voice,” he replies.

 

“ _Anders,” I warn, “what are you doing?”_

 

“ _I'm telling her the truth.”_

 

“ _To what end?” I ask. “You only jeopardize us further.”_

 

“ _There's no point in trying to hide it now,” he insists. “They could have left me for dead, but they didn't.”_

 

I cannot argue with that.

 

“Anders?” Hawke asks again, “What do you mean, 'it wasn't your voice'?” her eyes narrow and her hand reaches back towards her blade. “You're not possessed by a demon, are you?”

 

My indignation upon hearing this enables me to bellow aloud, “Certainly not!”

 

But Anders' will is stronger this time and he regains control just as my outburst ends.

 

“Sorry,” he says, “him again. No, he's not a demon. Just a very...obstinate spirit.” The mage then proceeds to explain who I am and how he and I came to be united. The thought of her knowing this still leaves me uneasy. But the woman seems sincere and listens intently.

 

“I see,” she replies, biting her lip. She takes a few moments to consider the new information. I cannot quite read her expressions. But then, interpreting these has never been one of my many strengths. “Well, at least that explains the whole, 'sexy, tortured look' you've got going for you,” she grins.

 

“ _Is she...flirting with me?” caught off-guard, Anders asks me._

 

“ _How in The Void should I know, human?!” I snap back. “Such things make no sense to me.”_

 

Anders runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I-I guess I should check a looking-glass more often,” he manages to stammer.

 

“Well, your secret is safe with me – with all of us,” she says with an air of confidence. “Besides, you already know about my sister and my other companions' unique...talents. You're more than welcome to join our expedition, you know,”

 

“Oh, right,” Anders remembers, rifling through his coat pockets, “your maps. Here they are, as promised.” She takes them and begins to scrutinize their contents.

 

Once she has verified that they are indeed authentic, she smiles at my host and continues, “We could use a healer and fighter of your calibre and experience in the Deep Roads.”

 

I feel the stir of an unknown wish growing in Anders' heart and body, one that is foreign to me. One that I can neither explain, nor fully comprehend. I am instantly wary. I could be wrong (and I am never wrong) but I think it might be something like “loneliness”.

 

Apparently, the humans have a saying: “They fear that which they do not understand.” Perhaps in this the mortals may be right.

 

Still, foolish as he is, I cannot believe he is actually considering.

 

“ _You said this was to be a 'one-time-only deal', mage.” I remind him, thinking to myself that it is better to be safe, than to be sorry (another wise human saying I have picked up, rare as these are)._

 

“ _The templars have been snooping around down here more often as of late,” he replies, “It might be a good opportunity to lay low for awhile. We'd be gone for at least a good month or so,”_

 

“ _I also seem to recall you once said, 'I will never go back into those blighted Deep Roads as long as I live.' Will you not keep your word either way?”_

 

“ _If the expedition's successful, we stand to make a great deal of coin to help the needy,”_

 

“ _And if it is unsuccessful, you stand to lose your life,”_

 

“It's fine if you need more time to think about it,” Hawke interrupts our silent argument, “or to talk it over with your...friend, first.” Whatever her motives, the woman is certainly perceptive. “Your...lips were moving,” she explains with a slight grin. Or perhaps she simply has a firm grasp of the obvious.

 

“I'm really sorry about your friend. About Karl, I mean. He must have meant a lot to you.”

 

“He did.”

 

“Care to talk about it?”

 

“Thanks, but I'd rather not.” Perhaps he is not quite so foolish as I thought.

 

“I understand. It's personal. And you don't really know me.” she admits with a shrug. “If you ever want to, though, next time you're in Lowtown you should swing by The Hanged Man for a game of cards. We go there a lot.”

 

Anders is skeptical. He does not like being around a lot of people. Hawke seems to pick up on this.

 

“Don't worry,” she smiles. “We don't bite. Unless it's called for,”

 

I make a point of ignoring the indecent thoughts that flash through the mage's mind – however briefly – as he stares at her back when she turns to join her waiting companions.

 

“So what brand of crazy have you brought us this time, Hawke?” Varric asks her.

 

“Only the kind that'll fit right in with the rest of us,” she replies as they walk away.


	3. A Volunteer

**Hawke**

I make my way through the narrow passages of the undercity. I keep my breathing shallow to inhale less of the chokedamp, not wanting to fill my lungs with it's toxic stench. Sharing a rundown shanty in the old city slums with three other people hasn't been easy. But were it not for uncle Gamlen, this is where we'd be, with all the other Ferelden refugees. Compared to them, we don't have it so bad.

My steps quicken as I pass row upon row of squalid tents and the dozens of people in tattered clothing, gathered around makeshift campfires. A small boy manages to catch up with me and tugs on the back of my coat. He lifts a dirty hand and looks up at me with weary grey eyes, betraying hardship beyond his years. I give him all the change I have, which is to say, very little. He runs off into a nearby tent inhabited by two other thin children, huddled together in blankets. I wonder if they are all alone here; if their parents died in the blight.

As I pass through the doors of the clinic, I can see Anders sitting at his desk, head bowed. The quill in his hand stiffly swaying back and forth, he is engrossed in writing. There is a look of intense concentration to him, accentuating already rugged features. A stray bit of golden hair has escaped from it's ties and is dangling like a stalk of wheat in his face, but he does not look up. His eyes have taken on that eerily-familiar blue glow.

“Quiet day?” I ask, after a few moments. I look around at the many empty cots around me. There are just a couple of patients under the healer's care this afternoon, and both are sleeping.

Anders glances up and upon recognizing me, the icy light from his eyes fades as a smile takes it's place.

“Hullo, Hawke,” he says, placing the quill down and standing to greet me. “What brings you into the armpit of Kirkwall today?”

“Not much. Had to drop off some ingredients with Tomwise and place an order for more Deathroot extract,” I reply, “I was in the area, so I thought I'd pay a visit.”

“Let me get this straight: you're not here to enlist me for one of your bounty hunts again?”

“Not at all.”

“No gangs of bandits to rid the streets of today?”

“Nope. It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood,” I say, in a sing-song voice.

“I see,” he laughs, then raises his brows. “You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were blushing just now,”

I can feel my cheeks warm a bit at the words. “I must have inhaled some of the smog.” I flatly reply. “Besides, I practically ran here trying to avoid it,” But the mage has become a dog with a bone and just won't let it go until he's gnawed at it first.

“Well, I don't know anyone who would go out of their way to pay a social call to a sick house, what more, one in Darktown,” he continues, a smirk forming in the corners of his mouth. “That and I rarely see someone as fit as you are, out of breath...”

Some naughty responses come to mind, but I keep them to myself. “I just thought I'd see if you needed a hand,” I insist and quickly try to recover. “Bad day for the chokedamp, good day for an underground stroll. So...”

“Yes?”

“Put me to work, silly man,” I say, rolling up my sleeves. “whatever you need,”

“Don't you ever tire of seeing blood, silly woman?” he jibes back. “Funny way to spend your day off.”

“Don't you? And while we're on the subject, when was the last time you had a day off?”

“I hope you're not expecting to be compensated in some way for this,” he mutters. But he must not have anticipated the look of surprise on my face, for he is instantly apologetic. “It's just that most “volunteers” around here usually want something more tangible in return than the warm, fuzzy feeling that you've done somebody a good turn,” he explains.

“How about I cut you a deal?” I start, and his eyes narrow in suspicion. “I give you some of my time and in exchange...you give me the pleasure of your company.”

“...such that it is,” he interjects.

“Warm, fuzzy feelings: optional,” I say with a grin.

He laughs. “Very well, then.” He leads me to the back of the room. “I could use a hand preparing supplies. We need more bandages sterilized and when you're done, I'll show you how to get these herbs ready for poultices. There's firewood under that tarp over there,” he points and sits at a nearby table to rummage through boxes of herbs and various flasks while I set to work building a fire.

“While I'm at it,” I say, kneeling over the fire pit and noticing a kettle next to the large pot of used bandages and scraps of cloth, “mind if I put on some tea?”

“Go ahead,” he says, “I could go for a cuppa,”

“I should apologize,” I say, pulling up a dusty stool to sit beside him. I start scrubbing at the bandages with pieces of soap and ashes while waiting for the water to boil. “I feel as though I interrupted you.”

“No problem,” Anders sorts through the dried leaves and roots. “I needed a break anyway,”

“What you were working on...was it...something that Justice inspired?” I ask.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it was,” he says, sighing. His expression is troubled, and there is a tiredness in his eyes that I hadn't noticed before. “He, that is to say, I – have been working on a letter to the Viscount and the Grand Cleric to try to convince them to change their policies on the treatment of mages. Though I'm not sure if it'll make much of a difference.” Anders stares at the smoke rising up from the crackling fire.

“It must,” I say, “At the very least, they need to consider lessening the use of the Rite of Tranquility, if not abolish it outright.”

“Exactly!” he says, turning to me, face brightening. “They need to be willing to allow mages a voice – even a dissenting one – if we're to be active participants in a rational discussion about our rights,”

“Yes, instead of silencing them altogether,” I add. “Viscount Dumar and Grand Cleric Elthina seem fairly diplomatic, though. I'm sure they'll hear you out.”

“Perhaps. But the real problem is the templar's Knight-Commander.”

“Meredith, is it?”

He nods, then puts the end of some herbs to his lips and begins to chew it absentmindedly. “She's the real power behind the throne. But from what I hear, she's not exactly the most reasonable.” He continues to nibble away at the stem, lost in thought.

“There's something I've been wondering about ever since we first met,” I finally decide to say.

“Ask away,”

“What's it like,” I venture, “having Justice...a spirit, live inside you?”

“Strange. Very, very strange. Like there's another person underneath my skin: someone with a unique personality completely distinct from mine, with different ideas and tastes. But we have to share just the one body. Which means that we don't always agree on what constitutes the best use of it.”  

“I'd imagine it must have taken some getting used to.”

“Aye,” he replies. “that it did. I used to do whatever I wanted. Which wasn't much, to be honest.  Mostly buggering about from place to place, looking for anything to amuse me.”

“Is that why you're so passionate about fighting for the freedom of others? Because you feel you've so little of it, yourself?”

Anders gives me a curious look. “You know, I never thought of it that way. Justice's and my memories are so intertwined now that the best I can recall is that he convinced me that I have a moral obligation to liberate my fellow mages. Especially since I was enjoying the fruits of my own liberty.”

“Do you ever regret joining with him?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But I suppose it's a little too late for that now. Justice has given me purpose. One I would never have understood on my own. At least not at the rate I was going. So these days, he and I usually have more in common than not.”

The water has begun to boil. I pick up the kettle to pour into two mugs, then dump the remainder of the boiling water into the pot with the washed bandages.

Anders reaches over and deposits some tea leaves into each mug. “So what about you, Hawke?” he asks, “What gives you a sense of purpose? What's motivating you to pursue this expedition into the Deep Roads anyhow: riches beyond imagination?” he smiles.

I shake my head. “I really couldn't care less. Give me a full belly and a clean place to sleep and I'm content.” I stare into the fire and take a cautious sip of my tea. “It's my mother I'm worried about most. Since Carver died, she's...she hasn't been doing very well. My sister and I are convinced that living in Lowtown has been especially hard on her since she grew up among the nobility here.”

“Well, if all goes well, I'm sure you'll have more than enough to buy back your family estate,”

“That's what we hope, for mother's sake. Bethany and I spent our childhood on the run so much that I think anywhere can become home for us if we really want it to.”

“You don't ever want to settle down? Start a family of your own one day?” he asks, brows knit together.

“I don't know,” I say, “I hadn't really thought about it.” Then I'm struck with a funny thought and can't contain a snicker. “For a housewife, I'd have an odd set of domestic skills, that's for sure. Could you see me chopping onions with these things?” I ask, drawing my dual-wielded daggers simultaneously, then re-sheathing them with an elaborate flourish.

Anders laughs. “I'd pay to see that,”

“You'd pay to see what, Blondie?” Varric is suddenly standing behind us, inquisitive.

“Andraste's flaming knickers!” exclaims the mage, jumping in his seat and scattering dried herbs everywhere. “You sodding rogue! Don't do that!” I clutch my stomach in laughter. I swear, the startled look on Anders' face was just priceless.

“C'mon, let's hear it! I need more juicy material for Hawke's memoirs.”

I roll my eyes and help Anders clean up the mess. “How's it hanging, Varric?”

“Low, as usual,” he whips back. It's one of our favourite exchanges.

“Haven't you got better things to do, dwarf?” grumbles Anders, brushing crushed leaves off his lapel.

“I'm not as busy as the two of you, if that's what you mean,” Varric retorts. “Actually, I'm here for Hawke.” I cock my head and throw him a questioning glance. “There's a rumour I just heard,” he lowers his voice, “about someone hanging around the Chantry looking for a particular T-E-M-P-L-A-R,”

“This particular blonde can spell, Varric.” Anders says, crossing his arms.

“And here I thought you were just another pretty face,”

I clear my throat. “Boys! Play nice,” I warn them before telling Varric, “I guess we should go check it out.”

“I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to finish what we started,” I say to the mage on my way out.

“As am I, Hawke,” Anders replies, trying to hide his disappointment, “as am I,”


	4. Stray

 

**Anders**

 

 

I must be dreaming.

 

Yes, this must be the Fade, for I can see the Black City looming in the darkened sky. The air is thick with magic, so much so that everything around me feels thinly masked by a pulsating, ethereal haze. All sense of time is lost here.

 

Somehow, I have a cat again. There is a playful bronze tabby nipping at my feet. It is following me up an unending stone staircase spiralling upwards into the grey clouds. Floating islands drift overhead, and I can almost reach out and touch the the long, thick tree roots trailing beneath them. I feel the ground crumble underfoot with every step I take and watch as the rocky debris falls behind me into a cavernous abyss below.

 

Suddenly, a massive rage demon rises up to bar the way; a menacing, amorphous figure of lava radiating scorching heat. For some reason, I cannot raise my staff to strike – it is too heavy, and my arms feel leaden and numb. But then the cat transforms into a ferocious tiger and without fear or hesitation, it springs forward to attack, crushing the demon beneath her sharp claws.

 

Then it's just an ordinary cat again: purring and climbing onto me, rubbing it's face against mine just like any normal cat would. The cat's fur falls away to reveal Hawke, leaning over to kiss me.

 

Of course, this is when I wake up.

 

I can feel the warmth of the morning sun on my face. I rub my eyes. A small shaft of light streams down through a slat in the grate overhead, illuminating the damp, foggy air. Long shadows pass briefly over it, accompanied by the sound of sand and dirt softly falling through. The city above is awakening, and so should I.

 

Instead, however, I roll over in my cot to pull the rough wool blanket around me, smiling. The dry, wooden frame creaks and strains underneath. I try to imagine what might have happened next.

 

“ _Get up_ ,” the voice from within me says.

 

When I open my eyes, my gaze falls upon the salvaged crates and sheets of cracked wood that serve as my writing desk and the quill and parchment lying upon it.

 

“ _The manifesto is not yet complete. There is still much work to be done.”_

 

I yawn and force myself to sit up and pull on a shirt.

 

Just then, there is a loud banging on the door.

 

“Anders!” calls out the muffled voice on the other side.

 

As I pull up the latches, Bethany and Aveline come barging through. Between them, they are supporting a wounded and nearly-unconscious Hawke. Upon seeing me, she lifts her head and smiles weakly. “I hear you're a pretty good medic,” she jokes, before passing out.

 

“Great Maker, what happened?” I ask, seeing all the blood seeping from underneath her armoured breastplate.

 

“Running out of potions at the blighted Wounded Coast happened,” Aveline says as she sets

Hawke down on the nearest cot.

 

“Give me a hand,” I turn to Bethany and we begin to remove her sister's armour so I can assess the damage.

 

“I'll need that jug of water, my knife and some clean cloth,” I say to Aveline, gesturing to my supply box. She nods and wastes no time.

 

“It was more than my healing skills could handle,” Bethany shakes her head, “There were too many of them,”

 

“Regardless, Hawke got the job done,” the guard captain says, back with the supplies. “As always.”

 

Under the armour, her shirt is completely soaked in blood. I cut it open and stare at the deep gash in her side. My jaw clenches.

 

I've seen countless and varying degrees of wounded over the years; every stage of living and dying. You'd think that after all this time it would be the same to me, and I suppose that for the most part that's true. Except when it comes to her.

 

“Why,” I ask, “in Andraste's name did no one bring me along this time? I might have prevented this,”

 

“Bethany will have to explain,” replies Aveline, picking up her shield and turning to leave, “I need to see to my guardsmen.”

 

“Thanks, Aveline,” Bethany sighs and sets her staff down. She proceeds to clean and put pressure on Hawke's wounds, but won't look me straight in the eye. “Truth be told, there were runaway mages involved and we ended up being attacked both by them and by templars.”

 

Bitterness wells up in me at the sound of their name. Before I can voice my anger at not being allowed to help, she throws me a stern look. “Marian knew what she was doing, Anders. She was trying to prevent you from having to fight Justice for control again.”

 

But now is not the time to argue. I roll up my sleeves and take a deep breath, placing my hands over Hawke's body. I begin to concentrate, blocking out all other senses in order to narrow my focus: drawing upon the good spirits of the Fade to work through me to heal her. I can feel the energy coursing through me, out through my hands and into her body, making it's way though the damaged tissue to stop the bleeding and slowly repair and restore, knitting back together what was torn. At the same time, I can feel my own energy draining away, little by little.

 

After a few minutes, I can feel that there is no more that needs to be done and the flow of magic stops of it's own accord. But it leaves me lightheaded and I stagger back slightly, reaching for something to steady me.

 

“Are you all right?” Bethany asks, pulling over a chair for me to sit on.

 

“I'll be fine,” I assure her, opening my eyes. Hawke's wounds are now gone, and she is fast asleep. “But more importantly, so will she. She just needs a bit of rest to recover all the blood she lost.”

 

“Can I get you anything? Maybe some water?” she offers.

 

“That would be nice,” I reply, “thank-you,”

 

Bethany hands me a cup and brings over another chair to be by Hawke's side. We sit and watch her sleeping, her steady, quiet breathing. I've never seen her like this before. Peace has replaced the look of fierce determination I know so well. She seems so gentle. I want to reach out and touch her cheek. I want to brush away the dark, stray hairs that always keep falling into her eyes. But I don't.

 

“She's quite the woman, your sister,”

 

“The very best.” One of Hawke's arms is dangling over the edge of the cot and Bethany lifts up her hand and holds it between hers. She opens her mouth as though about to ask something, then stops herself.

 

She is silent for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “She has a great deal of admiration for you, too, you know,” glancing sideways at me as she says this. But I put on my best card-playing face and make my shrug as offhand and casual as I can.

 

“I don't do anything more here than any other decent human being would,”

 

“Perhaps it's the lack of decent human beings in the world that makes one take notice.”

 

“Now, when it comes to Hawke,” I say, trying to divert attention, “that's just what I don't get about her.”

 

“And what's that?”

 

“What exactly she stands to gain from helping all these people.”

 

“Why must there necessarily be something to gain from it?” she laughs. “Maybe she's just doing no more than any other decent human being would,”

 

“But she's hardly got a penny to her name and still, all she ever does is risk her life - time and again - for a motley crew of random stragglers whose allegiance to her is strained at best and downright dangerous at worst,” I insist.

 

“Doesn't Fenris have a saying that goes, 'Mages in glass houses shouldn't throw fireballs'?”

 

I can't help but frown upon hearing it. “Why Hawke insists upon having that brooding elf around is beyond me,”

 

“Seriously, Anders,” Bethany says, “From all the stories you've told, since being in the Ferelden Circle, it sounds like you once were fairly...carefree. But now here you are.”

 

“You have Justice to thank for that, my dear, not I.” I reply. “I, for one, was perfectly content simply running away, until he convinced me otherwise.” I know that if it weren't for the spirit inhabiting me, I'd probably still be out there somewhere – anywhere the templars weren't - selfishly seeking out whatever pleasures I could squeeze out of life, however small, petty and few.

 

“Still,” she insists, “you and Marian are a lot more alike than you realize,”

 

“It didn't take being possessed to make your sister the way she is,” I say. “But now, I'm curious. What was she like – growing up, I mean?”

 

“An irrepressible tomboy, of course,” she says with a smile, “through and through, much to mother's chagrin. She loved to climb trees and she'd get into scraps with the other village children.”

 

“No surprises there,”

 

“Thing is,” Bethany looks up and stares at the lantern on the wall, “unlike Carver, she only fought you if you were picking on someone. I don't know how many times she pummelled him for teasing me. Carver absolutely hated that she always won. Every time.”

 

She sighs and looks at her sister lying in the cot, fast asleep. “I guess it couldn't be helped, really. We were moving all the time, hiding from the templars, so we never really made close friends. All we had was each other.”

 

Then she laughs, “Well, us and Dog, that is.”

 

“Dog?” I ask.

 

“Our mabari,” Bethany explains. “Of course, our family hadn't anywhere near the status to have our own war hound in the traditional sense. We were living in South Reach at the time, in a little cottage at the edge of the woods. I guess Carver and I were around seven, which means Marian would have been eleven or thereabouts.

 

There was a small copse of trees right behind the shed that mother let us run around in when she was out to hang the laundry or father was chopping firewood. We had a grand old time back in those days,” she grins at me before continuing, enjoying the memory.

 

“We'd play there for what must have been hours. I'd bring my dolls and sit on a tree stump under a big oak tree while Carver ran about, whacking at trees with a stick, pretending it was a sword and he a mighty soldier. Marian would run around trying to hide on us or scramble up the low-hanging branches of the trees and just sit up there, waiting to see how long it took for us to notice where she'd gone.

 

One day, we looked for her and couldn't find her. Then I heard her voice calling down from far above me. Turns out that she had somehow managed to climb to the top of that big oak tree to look out over the forest. When she came back down again she said that she could see further into the woods beyond the copse and wanted to have a closer look.

 

I wasn't thrilled about the idea, but I followed her anyway. Carver said he was going to tell on us and ran off, but Marian didn't care. She was determined to press on, poking a path through a thicket with a branch. She seemed to know where she was going.

 

After what felt like a long ways, we reached a clearing. It was darker than our little spot of the woods and I was scared, but then we discovered some bramble berry bushes. We went about picking some, when suddenly we heard a low growl and whimpering coming from one of the bushes. I was frightened by the sound and dropped my apronful of berries to hide behind Marian.

 

Suddenly, we saw a snout and a small brown paw dart out of the bush and snap up one of the berries that had fallen to the ground before retreating back into the leaves. I jumped back, but Marian said, “It's just a pup!” and knelt down by the bush. She grabbed a handful of berries and lured him out of his hiding place.

 

When he came out, I could see that it was a mabari puppy, no more than this big,” Bethany held her hands apart, “He was limping badly and had blood in his fur. But just as Marian reached for him, father and Carver came running into the clearing. Startled, the dog bit her in the hand. She cried out and Carver said to kill it. Father was furious, but Marian scooped the pup up in her arms and held it away from them, saying that he didn't mean to do it, it was just because he was hurt and afraid.”

 

“What happened next?” I asked.

 

“Well, Marian refused to let her hand be treated unless they first promised to allow her to care for the dog's wounds. After scolding us severely for wandering off, father relented, only because it was still a puppy and he was sure the poor thing got set upon by a bear.”

 

“So she nursed the pup back to health?”

 

“Yes, but not before the creature had nipped her many a time – on the fingers, on her arm. But Marian never complained, even when the pain brought tears to her eyes. She'd just say that he couldn't help himself.

 

Once the dog's wounds were healed, we took him back to the clearing to set him free, but he refused to leave. He just kept following her back home. So we ended up keeping him, after all. And from then on, he never left her side.”

 

“What became of the dog?”

 

“Oh, he got bigger, and father came to find him indispensable for hunting. Then after about a year, the templars caught up with us again. But somehow Dog could sense it. He started growling as they approached the house and actually attacked one. We managed to escape, but father was convinced that we would never have gotten away so easily if it weren't for Dog,” Bethany sighs. “We fled into The Bannorn and then on to Lothering. We never saw Dog again after that, though it was weeks before Marian finally gave up hope that he'd find a way to follow us.”

 

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I say, “I'm a cat person at heart, really, but Dog sounds like he was a mighty fine animal,”

 

“That he was,”

 

“I bet after the Deep Roads, Hawke can probably stand to splurge on a whole kennel of puppies if she wants,”

 

Bethany laughs. “I could see that happening,”

 

“Think you'll go with her?” I ask, “On the expedition?”

 

“Oh, I'd like to, though I know mother will disapprove something fierce. But in the end, it's really up to Marian.”

 

“You trust your sister that much - to make the right choice for you?”

 

“Absolutely. I'd trust her with my very life. Always have. Don't you?”

 

Just then, we hear Hawke stirring. Her drowsy eyes open slightly and she looks up at Bethany, “Hullo, sister,” she murmurs.

 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” she grins back.

 

Hawke slowly tilts her head to look down at where the gaping wound used to be. “Didn't I tell you he was good?” she says before glancing over at me. “But now you owe me a shirt, mage,”

 

“Oh, you look better without one anyway,” I reply, feeling cheeky all of a sudden.

 

“You _owe_ him your life,” says Bethany at the same time.

 

“So I do,” Hawke says with an enigmatic smile, then promptly passes out again before either of us can determine who she was responding to.


	5. Are WeThere Yet?

 

**Justice**

 

 

The mage refuses to speak to me. And rightly so. He reneged on his promise, and now we are here, wasting time. Just as I predicted.

 

“ _You owe me, Anders,” I say, as we sit in a corner of the oxen-led cart with Hawke and her other companions. “One day, I will reclaim from you every last minute of these lost hours. You mark my words.”_

 

“ _We've been over this before,” he replies, exasperated. “This expedition benefits us in three significant ways: one, we get to hide from the templars; two, we'll have enough sovereigns in our pocket to stock the clinic with supplies for well over a year; and three, there's plenty of honour to be found in killing darkspawn in the process.”_

 

“ _It is not the consequences of this endeavour that I ultimately disapprove of,”_

 

“ _Then what in Andraste's name is it, Justice?”_

 

“ _What I object to is the real reason why we are here.”_

 

“ _I've already told you why,”_

 

“ _Deny all you wish, mage. You may try to fool yourself, but you cannot fool me. We are here because of your irrational attraction and loyalty to that Hawke woman.”_

 

“ _Call it what you want, spirit, but it's neither irrational nor a waste of time.”_

 

That was precisely when he decided to stop talking to me. Which matters not, in the end. I can still hear his thoughts, just as he can hear mine. He is simply choosing to ignore them. It is utterly sophomoric.

 

Thankfully, however, Anders wisely chooses to keep mostly to himself. It has been a two-day journey over land to the chosen entrance into the Deep Roads. We are in strange company, to say the least.

 

Also in the cart is that Tevinter elf who seems to dote upon the Hawke woman but shows my host no small amount of disdain, primarily due to me.

 

“What are you staring at, mage?” Fenris glares at me.

 

“Just admiring your pretty tattoos,” Anders quips back with a wink just to annoy him, to which the elf harrumphs and goes back to glowering at the road ahead.

 

I have observed the Lyrium-branded warrior in battle and continue to watch him closely – he would be a formidable foe were his antagonism towards mages to inevitably result in action.

 

There is also the dwarf who has given his crossbow a female name and likes to talk incessantly. Varric is what I believe the humans would call “charming”, which essentially amounts to having the talent to spin falsehoods in order to achieve one's goals. What his true objectives are, I have yet to ascertain. To the rogue's credit, he does tend to get along decently with Anders. A likely ruse, but at least he is willing to help the mage cause, even if indifference is the most plausible reason.

 

The dwarf guffaws, “I shit you not, Daisy, that's exactly what happened!”

 

At his feet, it crouches. Spindly limbs curled into it's body, bare feet tucked underneath. Pointy ears jut out from a dishevelled mop of black hair over eyes the colour of poison, darting here and there at anything that moves. That Dalish blood mage; practically a demon herself. A high-pitched squeal of a laugh escapes the siren's lips, and I cringe. I will need to keep an eye on that one.

 

“Merrill?” Bethany hands the elf a cushion to sit on. Hawke's apostate sister seems kind and well-meaning enough. Although I have my doubts about the wisdom of bringing a close family member on an expedition as dangerous as this, I cannot find fault in the young mage's skill, even if she seems a little inexperienced and naive.

 

Hawke makes her way over to Anders and sits down next to him.

 

“I've been meaning to talk to you ever since we left Kirkwall. I never did get the chance to properly thank you.”

 

My host is puzzled, but smiles anyway. “I'm not sure what I'm taking credit for, but it must be something good,”

 

“Oh, it is,” she laughs. “Look, I know you really didn't want to go back into the Deep Roads again. I just wanted to let you know that it means a great deal having someone on board who's actually been there before.”

 

“Oh, it's a walk in the park...with darkspawn,” he says with a wave of his hand. “you'd be fine without me.” 

 

Hawke shrugs. “So you say, Anders. You're still the best damn spirit healer I've ever met.”

 

I can sense his embarrassment at the unexpected compliment. But he hides it well. Ignoring me seems to bring back a little of his old, flippant self. “I knew it: you're just using me for my body,” he grins.

 

“Isn't Justice?” she smirks back. 

 

Internally, Anders is laughing. But before I am able to express my annoyance, Hawke is called up to the front of the cart again.

 

The leader of the expedition is Varric's greedy brother, Bartrand, within whom I sense the propensity for much deceit. He is accompanied by an assortment of dwarf and human hirelings, riding in the supply carts behind ours.

 

“All right, people,” Bartrand barks back to the rest of us as the carts slowly come to a stop. “We've finally made it.”


	6. Absence

 

**Hawke**

 

 

I'm still trying to get used to the heat. The rancid smell, the lack of sunlight, the lost sense of time, even the darkspawn don't really bother me so much anymore. But the deeper underground we go, the hotter it gets. The only respite to be found is at night, when the temperature seems to drop; precious little, mind you, but it's something. Thank the Maker I thought to bring lighter armour. 

 

They say that the warmer the conditions, the crankier and more impatient your travelling companions become. Like we really need any more of that. 

 

Maybe this was a mistake. Technically, Bartrand's in charge here, yet I can't help but feel responsible for everyone. We're almost halfway into this blighted expedition already. Would it kill them to try and just get along for once? 

 

“ Was it necessary to bring along so many mages, Hawke?” Fenris corners me as we've settled into camp at the end of the night. 

 

“You know that Aveline couldn't get time off from the guard and Isabella said she had other things to take care of. But it seems to be working out well so far, don't you think?” I reply. “You draw and hold the enemy's attention at a choke point; Varric, Merrill and I slow them down; then the rest of us pick them off from a distance with Anders as the main healer and Bethany as backup healer.”

 

I look over at my sister, laughing as she tries to brush out Merrill's unruly hair while they listen to Varric tell one of his stories with great gusto. Sitting conspicuously apart from them, of course, is Anders, leaning over a crate and writing with fervour – quill and parchment flying under his hands. I sneak a subtle glance his way and see him occasionally pause to look around the cavern. His stare lingers awhile once he sees me alone with Fenris but quickly goes back to writing as soon as he thinks I notice him. I swear, that man will be the death of me. 

 

“ There is nothing wrong with your strategy, my friend,” he lays a hand on my shoulder, drawing us a little further out of earshot. “In fact, I have to admit, it's brilliant.” 

 

“ Thanks, Fenris,” I say. “That holds a lot of weight coming from you,” 

 

“ Well, I suggest you heed my words carefully, then,” he says, lowering his voice. “These mage friends of yours...they are wolves in sheep's clothing.” 

 

“ Oh, I know Bethany well, and believe me: she really is a sheep under there,” I smile. 

 

“ It is not your sister that concerns me.” 

 

“ I know,” I sigh, “and I've been working on Merrill to stop using blood magic; as for Anders...he's trying his best to keep Justice under control. He means well. They both do.” 

 

“ Don't you humans say that the path to The Void is paved with good intentions?” he says, gruffly. “It is only a matter of time before their need for power endangers us all.” 

 

“ I know what you went through with Denarius, but you still can't paint all mages with the same broad brush,” I insist. 

 

“Since I know that growing up with an apostate father and sister has coloured your own views on magic, I would advise you to avoid doing the same,” 

 

Father. It's been a while since I last thought of him. I wonder what he would do in my place. 

 

“ _Protect your sister,”_ he said to me when he fell ill. I remember the weary look on his face as he gradually succumbed to weakness until he finally lost the energy to leave his bed; the feel of his feeble hands as they squeezed mine – once strong – as they grew thinner and more frail each day. 

 

“ Hawke?” Fenris asks, brows furrowed. 

 

“ Oh, sorry,” I blink quickly to conceal the dampness in the corners of my eyes. “I'm listening,” 

 

“ I just think we should be cautious. That is all,” 

 

“ It's fine, Fenris. I'll definitely consider what you've said,” 

 

“ Everything all right over here?” Anders is now standing behind me, staff in hand. He tries to joke by taking an official, guard-like tone. “Is this elf bothering you, messere?” The elf in question, however, will have nothing of it. 

 

“ None of your business, mage.” he snaps back. “I should retire for the night.” he gives me a slight bow before shoving past Anders and stalking off into his tent. 

 

“ I don't blame you,” Anders calls after him, “you need all the beauty sleep you can get ! ” 

 

A slender, armoured hand forming a rude gesture is thrust out between the canvas panels before disappearing into the tent again. 

 

“ Well, that was...entertaining,” I turn to Anders and sit down on a nearby barrel. “Feel free not to do that again. So, exactly how much did you overhear?” 

 

“ Honestly? Not a word,” he replies and leans on his staff. “But let me guess: he was either warning you not to trust me, or he was finally confessing his undying love for you. Were I in your place, it would be enough to bore _me_ to tears either way.” 

 

Now he's just baiting me. I'm not falling for it. I make a hissing sound and claw the air with one hand, which makes him laugh. 

 

“ Have you always been this snarky, Anders, or is it just something that being possessed brings out in you?” 

 

“ Who, me?” he tries to sound all innocent. “Never! But really now, which was it?” 

 

“ Since when do you care, anyway?” 

 

“ Oh, I don't,” he shrugs. “I just got tired listening to Varric tell the same old naughty nug wrangler story again. That and I thought you looked somewhat...unhappy.” 

 

“ It's nothing.” Two can play that game. 

 

Anders. I don't understand him at all. “ _Doesn't he remind you of Father?”_ Bethany insisted once, “ _Even a little?”_ Okay, so Father was a runaway - an apostate, just like he is. They both have the same terrible taste in clothing. Great Maker, they're practically _twins_ ! I said as much to her then, with as much vitriol as I could spew, just to cut off any further discussion on the matter. It worked. She knew better than to push it. 

 

What I refused to admit were those rare times - when I have absolutely no choice but to be still - that the wisps of thoughts that have been chasing me all along finally catch up. Father. Anders. Like at the top of Sundermount: the fearless way he held his chin when questioning Flemeth. The gentle smile he reserves for when he is giving Bethany advice on improving her spells. The feeling I got watching his back as he protectively threw himself in front of me the first (and last) time I ever ran out of stamina draughts. 

 

The grim line of his mouth when I've received more than a minor injury and he has to heal it. 

 

Still, it's not the most comfortable association to make. So I let the ghosts of memory dissolve as quickly as they first appeared. 

 

“ Hawke!” Merrill has spotted us and is waving her arms about, trying to get us to join them. It looks like they've already made considerable progress into a large cask of ale. 

 

Bethany nudges her in the ribs. I think she's trying to whisper, but even I can hear her. “Don't do that, silly! We should leave them alone,” 

 

“ Why should we leave them alone?” 

 

“ Shh!” my sister giggles. 

 

“ Why are we being quiet?” she replies loudly. 

 

Bethany only giggles harder. Varric shakes his head, “You two are worse than a gaggle of Orlesian schoolgirls at their first ball,” 

 

“ Varric, are you getting my sister drunk?” I call over, placing a hand on my hip. I gesture to Anders and walk towards them, “C'mon,” 

 

The dwarf holds his hands up. “Hey, don't look at me, Hawke,” he says, and promptly goes back to teaching Merrill how to play Diamondback. 

 

“ I've only had three,” Bethany raises a wobbly mug with one hand and shows me four fingers with the other. Then she begins to squint at them. 

 

“ Maker help us,” I groan and pry the mug away from her. 

 

“ Hey! I'm not done with that yet,” 

 

“ You are now, Bee,” I reply, taking a swig and sitting down. “Go get your bedroll.” 

 

She tries to stand, knees and feet tottering like a newborn colt. “Yes, _mother_ ,” she says, and shuffles off in search of her pack. 

 

Anders crouches down beside me. “So...” he says softly, poking with a stick at what's left of the smouldering campfire. “'Nothing', you were saying? It seemed like something to me,” 

 

“ Maker, you're sodding persistent,” 

 

“ ...she says to the guy who escaped the Circle seven times.” 

 

I sigh and finish off what's left of Bethany's ale. “If you _must_ know, I was thinking about my father.” 

 

“ What's this about Father?” my sister throws her bedroll on the ground and plops down next to me. 

 

“ Thanks,” I mutter at Anders under my breath. “Nothing. Anders was just finished asking.” 

 

“ So,” she says, crawling under the blankets. “What did I miss?” 

 

“ Yes, Hawke – why don't you fill her in?” he gives me a look. 

 

I glare back. “Not much, really. Just remembering...things.” 

 

“ What sorts of things?” 

 

“ Oh, you know. The usual. Stuff. With people and places.” I ignore Anders' smirk. 

 

“ You mean like the time back in Lothering when he chased off that Cousland boy who was trying to get all fresh with you behind the woodshed?” 

 

“ No,” I say, gritting my teeth, “not quite.” The mage will have a heyday with this one. 

 

“ You have to admit, it was pretty funny how Father sent him running with a well-placed flame blast. I can still see him scurrying away, britches trailing smoke behind him.” 

 

“ He sounds like a man after my own heart,” Anders laughs, “though I personally would have chosen frost – you know, to put _out_ the fire in his trousers.” 

 

Bethany giggles maniacally. 

 

“ Ha ha.” I say flatly. “Why don't you tell him about the time Father tried to teach you the rock armour spell?” 

 

“ Marian,” My sister has now stopped laughing. “Don't you dare!” 

 

I turn to Anders with my most devious grin. “She overdid it. We literally had to _roll_ her home. I swear, it was the most adorable thing.” 

 

She hits me with her pillow. “Not to me, it wasn't,” she pouts, “Carver used me to practice his sword strikes,” 

 

“ He was trying to chip you free, remember? You were trapped in there for hours,” 

 

“ ...and I really needed to use the privy,” 

 

By this time, Anders is practically rolling on the ground, clutching his belly. His feathered shoulders are shaking violently and I can't help recalling Merrill's comment about his coat looking like crows in the middle of anting. I snort out loud at the sight of it. The next thing I know, we're all gasping for air in laughter. 

 

“ What happened?” Varric asks when he finally puts away his deck of cards, “You finish all the ale or somethin'?” 

 

Merrill pokes her head over his shoulder. “We missed something funny, didn't we?” 

 

“ Maker, yes,” Anders is wiping tears from his eyes. Then he snickers, “Show her your rock armour spell, Bethany,” 

 

“ Yes,” Merrill says, “Let me see!” at which, we all burst out laughing again. 

 

My sister sighs, propping up her pillow to lean back on me. “Father was so patient with me.” She's let her hair grow long since we left Lothering. 

 

“ He was with all of us,” I reply as I gather up the thick, dark waves in my hands and begin to twist and braid them absentmindedly. 

 

“ _Especially_ Carver,” we both think aloud, chuckling at our shared memory. 

 

“ Your father,” Anders starts, then hesitates, almost regretting his words, “if you don't mind my asking, how did he...” 

 

“ Some new kind of disease,” I answer just to get it out and done with. “There was no cure.” 

 

“ I'm sorry.” 

 

“ He's at the Maker's side now,” murmurs Bethany. 

 

“ If there is a Maker, you mean.” I mutter. 

 

“ Marian!” She gasps, and strands of her hair slip from my fingers as she turns to look at me. 

 

“ You don't think so, Hawke?” Anders gives me a curious stare. 

 

“ I...don't really know. But look around,” I gesture to the corruption, slick and red as blood, that has seeped into the walls and columns around us before turning to Bethany, “You said it yourself, sister: why would the Maker create so many darkspawn?” 

 

“ He must have a purpose for them,” she insists. 

 

I'm not convinced. “Then is the Maker really that indifferent to the suffering they inflict on everyone else he's created? And what about the darkspawn themselves? Were they created merely for evil? If so, it seems rather cruel.” 

 

“ Still, something can't come from nothing,” my sister says, putting her pillow in my lap and curling up beside me as I work the tangles out of her hair. 

 

“ Don't look at me, Sunshine,” Varric shakes his head. “We're here. And the darkspawn just...happened. That's all we dwarves know, or care, about it.” 

 

Merrill curls up closer and sits cross-legged. “According to my people, long ago when time was still young, the nine Creators were borne of the land and the sun and all living creatures came into being through them.” 

 

“ I don't suppose your people could ever explain where the land and sun came from in the first place,” is Anders' clipped reply, “since these so-called 'Creators' of yours were in fact created by them...” 

 

The Dalish elf glares at him. “No, but I'm sure they would know, if only they took greater care to remember the past,” 

 

“ So who made the Maker, then, Blondie?” Varric asks, his lips forming a smug curl. 

 

The mage grins back. “How many angles are there in a circle? What does blue smell like?” 

 

“ Uh...” the dwarf looks confused. 

 

“ How many feathers are there on a fish?” 

 

“ I dunno, Blondie – hold still and I'll let you know,” 

 

I laugh. “Okay, mage. Make your point. You're starting to sound like Sandal,” 

 

“ Ooh,” Merrill pipes up, “I think I get it: circles don't have angles, and you can't smell a colour! At least, I don't think you can. But if blue had a smell, I'd imagine it would be very...clean. But now I'm rambling again. I think I'll go to bed now.” 

 

“ And of course, fish don't have feathers,” I say, waving to Merrill as she skips away. 

 

“ Present company excepted,” Varric adds, causing Anders to roll his eyes. 

 

“ So?” I shrug. 

 

“ So,” Anders continues, “we don't ask those kinds of questions about circles or colours or fish because those characteristics aren't part of their nature, right? It's the same thing if we're talking about an ultimate, creator god. By definition, he cannot be the Maker if he himself was made. Therefore...” 

“...the Maker must always have existed?” I ask.

 

“ Exactly.” 

 

“ Ugh,” Varric groans and stands up, rubbing his temples. “Why is my head hurting when I've hardly had anything to drink? As fascinating as this has been, friends, I think I'll turn in before my brain explodes. G'night,” he walks back towards the dwarven caravan's camp. 

 

“ I have to admit, Bethany is right in saying that you can't get something out of nothing. But still, isn't it simpler to assume there's no Maker at all rather than one that – if he made all things - must have made evil as well? You of all people can't deny seeing the injustices of this world; we face them all the time,” 

 

“ Yes,” Anders leans closer and waves away some campfire smoke that has drifted up around us. “We do. We risk our lives to fight against them. But why?” 

 

“ Why?” I raise an eyebrow. “Because it's the right thing to do, of course.” 

 

“ But _why_ is it the right thing to do?” he asks and sees the blank expression on my face. “Okay, let's backtrack: when you speak of evil, what do you mean?” 

 

“ The opposite of good,” I reply. “Injustice in place of justice. Inflicted suffering in place of joy. Hatred in place of love.” 

 

“ All right,” He raises a hand as if to shield his face from the light of a lantern beside him. “What is a shadow? Is it a thing in and of itself?” 

 

I stare at the patch of darkness that disappears and reappears on his cheek as he moves his hand up and down. 

 

“ I guess not, no. It's only there when you block the light. What do you think, Bee?” I look down at my sister to find that she has dozed off and is now snoring softly. I wipe away a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth and tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 

 

Anders smiles. “Right. And just as a shadow is like a 'hole' in light, evil is a 'hole' in goodness.” 

 

“ I'm still not sure I understand what you're getting at,” 

 

“ Goodness has substantial being - like a fire, casting light and warmth upon us. Evil is no more than the absence of good, just as darkness is no more than the absence of light . Think about it: the Maker was supposed to have created all things, right?” 

 

“ And so you're saying that because evil isn't something with being, the Maker didn't create it?” 

 

“ More or less, yes. I believe he intended to create all things for good.” 

 

“ Okay, Messere Smarty-Mage,” I smirk. “If that's the case, why then would the Maker allow corruption to infect his originally-good creation? Is it that the Maker made a mistake, or is he simply not strong enough to prevent evil from occurring? Either way, he doesn't seem like much of an all-powerful ruler of the universe to me.” 

 

“ It's neither.” 

 

“ Then what actually caused the 'hole' in goodness if he didn't?” 

 

“ We did,” he replies. 

 

“ _We?_ ” I say, taken aback by this. 

 

“ We were born free. The Maker gave all of his created beings the free will to pursue good or evil, right or wrong. Unfortunately, the majority of us freely and selfishly choose the latter,” 

 

“ Anders, sometimes I just can't figure you out.” 

 

“ How so?” 

 

“ I mean, one minute you're ranting against the Chantry and the next, you're sounding exactly like them.” 

 

“ Hey, let's get something straight,” he says, turning to look me in square the eye. “I'm on the side of justice. So was Andraste. But just because I believe that the Chantry has twisted her words and I sure as The Void disagree with how those blighted templars express their faith in her, it doesn't mean that what the prophetess actually taught lacks substance. As a wise man once said, 'Never judge a worldview by it's abuse,'” 

 

“ Fair enough. But why judge at all?” 

 

“ Because truth, by it's very nature, is exclusive. Either there is a Maker, or there isn't. It can't be both. When it boils right down to it, the Qunari, the Chantry, the Dalish – all of us: we might all be wrong, but we can't all be right.” 

 

I think about him, Fenris and Merrill and their directly conflicting convictions. He has a point, there. “I suppose so,” I sigh. 

 

“ At the end of the day, Hawke, we all have a choice to make. Which brings me back to my earlier question,” 

 

“ Remind me again?” 

 

“ You said that we fight against injustice – against evil - because it's the right thing to do.” 

 

I nod. 

 

“ Well, on what basis do you decide what is right and what is wrong?” 

 

“ Hmm...” It takes me a moment to answer. “Instinct, I guess,” I don't think I've ever really stopped to consider it before. I shrug. “I just do what feels right.” 

 

“ Well, I hate to break it to you, my friend,” Anders grins, “but in some places in Thedas, people love their neighbours, while in others, they eat them – all on the basis of feeling. Do you have a personal preference in the matter?” 

 

“ Okay, you got me,” I laugh, which causes my sister to stir and almost awaken. “I guess I really need to give it more thought. But it's late - I should call it a night, too. We've got an early start ahead of us tomorrow,” I whisper and gently pry myself out from under her sleeping frame. Then I turn to Anders and shake my head. “You never cease to amaze me, you know that?” 

 

I don't think he knows quite how to take my comment, for he averts his eyes and stares down at the last glowing embers of the fire. “Oh, you know us mages – we're all fun and games until someone loses an eye to a demon or something,” 

 

“ Any other surprises you'd care to share?” 

 

Of course, it could be an illusion – a trick of the shadows in the flickering lamplight - but I'm pretty sure a sly smile creeps across his lips. “You'll just have to wait and see.” 


	7. Masked Intentions

 

**Anders**

 

I settle into my tent and lean back, closing my eyes. The glow of the fading campfire dances in my vision, drifting spots of light within the darkness. I rub my face, yawning. Hands clasped behind my head against the stiff pillow, I try to lull myself to sleep. My mind, however, has other ideas.

 

Was I too forward with Hawke? I wonder what she thinks of me now. What did I say that seemed so unusual to her? Surely she's asked herself the very same questions before. Judging, however, by some of her responses it seems more and more unlikely.

 

Justice has some pointed questions of his own. _“I still do not understand why you did that.”_

 

“ _I just wanted to get to know her better,” I reply._

 

“ _Yes, but the sleep spell you cast on her sister – was that not rather...manipulative?”_

 

“ _I wouldn't say that. She was already well on her way to dreamland. I just...helped it along a little.”_

 

“ _I notice that you mortals are certainly quick enough to relinquish responsibility. Do you actually believe that this somehow justifies your actions?”_

 

“ _I'm not looking to justify anything here, least of all to you, Justice.”_

 

“ _Perhaps if you wish Hawke to question her own beliefs and motives, Anders, you should do the same for yourself first.”_

 

I know he means to discourage my attentions, but his words only serve to make me think of her more. Why can't I get her out of my mind? What is it about her that makes my heart skip a beat when her eyes meet mine; what intangible force compels me to secretly desire her smile?

And what would be the point? I know I can't act on my feelings. Not as I am now. There is too much at stake. She is too much of a risk. There is too much to lose. She isn't worth it.

 

“ _Stop it! Stop forcing your thoughts upon me, you blighted spirit!”_

 

“ _I will hear none of your petty accusations. Your thoughts are my thoughts, now, Anders. This is the path you have chosen. Do not blame me for the consequences.”_

 

“ _Admit it, Justice. You made as much of a mistake as I did. You're just as responsible for this as I am.”_

 

“ _Impossible. I am simply not capable of error. A mere mortal like you could never begin to conceive - ”_

 

“ _\- conceive what? How positively arrogant and complacent you are?”_

 

“ _How dare you! I am as impervious to flaws in character as I am to error.”_

 

“ _So your idea of merging with me went exactly according to plan, I suppose.”_

 

At this point, Justice falls silent, since he's never been a good liar. When I do not hear his assertive voice in my mind, I spend the night wondering how this spirit of the Fade suddenly developed a sense of pride.

 

* * *

Over the next few days, we set out further into the Deep Roads. The path we take forges deeper than  even I have ever been when I was a Warden and well beyond the scope of my maps. The heat has become oppressive now, assaulting us with every tired, dry breath we take. 

 

I have all but abandoned my favourite coat to my pack; it's once lofty feathers have become straggly, threadbare and limp – now reeking of smoke and sweat. As a result, I'm feeling more self-conscious than ever; like I am exposed in just my light armour under-padding and robes. I can feel Hawke's eyes upon me and I know what she's thinking. She says nothing, but the pained expression she has when she notices my gaunt frame (followed by second servings of stew and the spare ration of bread she hands me when no one else is looking) speak volumes.

 

“Trying to fatten me up?” I grin the next time she hands me an extra portion.

 

“I can't help it,” she shrugs, “what do they feed you in Darktown, anyway? Rats?”

 

“Only on special occasions. Usually it's just cockroaches and the odd pigeon if you're lucky.”

 

“Well, after we're done down here, Anders, I promise you the most extravagant feast of your life – on me.”

 

I can't prevent the corner of my mouth from betraying me. “I daresay the idea of feasting off you is more than a little compelling. Think you can handle keeping such a promise?” If Justice had eyes to roll right now, he would.

 

“Sure, but can you?” she winks back.

 

“By the ancestors,” Varric shakes his head as he wolfs down his stew, “how can you go from sewer vermin to innuendo faster than Bianca can impale a genlock? It must be a human thing,”

 

I shrug, “I'm just talented that way. So shoot me,”

 

“If you keep it up, I just might,” he laughs. 

 

Fenris strides up to Hawke and leans over to whisper in her ear. She furrows her brow for a moment in silent contemplation before rising and turning to the rest of us. “Anders? Varric? Could you come with us for a minute?” Her eyes quickly shift from ours to our weapons lying nearby.

 

Bethany notices. “What's wrong?” she sets down her bowl to rise from the campfire.

 

“Nothing, Bee. Just need to take care of a little something for Bartrand.”

 

“Without us?” her sister's eyes narrow.

 

“Can't I come, too?” Merrill says with her mouth full.

 

“Don't need my two powerhouses for the small stuff,” Hawke grins. “Just relax and finish your supper. We'll be back before you can say, 'Maker help us, it's an Archdemon!'”

 

I pick up my staff and follow Hawke and the others. Bodahn and Sandal wave as we pass through Bartrand's encampment. Once we've rounded a corner and have trekked for a couple of minutes down a narrow side passage, the air goes a little more stale than usual. The flowing lava on either side casts harsh shadows against the cavern walls. Fenris nudges Hawke. “Up ahead,” he says in a grim voice.

 

At this point, Hawke turns, face as hard as the stone pillars around us.

 

“We've got an ogre to deal with.” 


	8. A Big Problem

 

**Hawke**

 

Stay calm. You can't let them see the fear that's building inside you. If you falter now, you'll lose all the respect you've worked so hard to earn.

 

But the images that flash within my mind are hard to suppress.

 

I recall the wide, desolate expanse South of Lothering stretched before me: dusty, dirt roads strewn across barren wasteland, dark smoke curled skyward from razed villages in the distance. Just as we crested a hill littered with the corpses of refugees on either side, we felt the ground shake heavily.

 

At first, we thought it was a stampede of fleeing oxen, driven by the darkspawn across the plain. That is, until we saw the giant grey horns rise up from the road ahead - attached to a contorted face and a muscular frame larger than a house - it pounded towards us with thunderous steps. We scattered to fling ourselves out of harm's way as it charged. It stopped, it's giant body heaving in our midst. Towering above us, crooked, rotted teeth bared in a snarl, it roared. It's armour shook and clattered as it thumped it's chest in a challenge.

 

That fool, Carver! Stupid, stupid Carver! Before I could cry out, before I could stop him, my brother rushed headlong at the beast almost ten times his size! He never stood a chance. It picked him up in one gnarled, boulder of a hand and like a baby playing with a new toy...I tried to block out the sight, the sound, the sickening crunch his body made when it smashed him into the ground over and over until it tossed him away like a limp rag doll.

 

There was no time to shed a tear and no time for fear. Just the thought of mother or Bethany...it was too much. The rest was a frantic blur that ended when I staked the foul thing through the eye. I plunged my short sword deep into it's head, dropping all of my weight - all of my anger, all of my grief - behind it. I felled an ogre then, and I can do it again.

 

This time, I'm not taking any chances. This time, I can be sure that at least my sister will be kept safe. I let out a slow breath and steel my expression into a neutral, impervious mask.

 

“So, Hawke?” Varric asks, “What's the plan?”

 

“Same as always,” I quip with as much cocky bravado as I can fake. “Stay alive.”

 

I reach into a pouch at my hip and pull out a vial of Deathroot toxin. “You got your flasks on you, Varric?”

 

He pats his coat. “Always,”

 

“Good. These guys are like walking fortresses. They've got thick hides and won't go down easily. So it goes without saying to use the most powerful attacks you've got. Thing is, though: they don't walk, they charge. Like a bull.” I start coating my blades with the toxin.

 

“So we need to slow him down first,” offers Anders, making his fingertips exude rock and then ice.

 

“Right,” I nod. “No one here except Fenris has the strength to take a direct hit from him, so keep your distance and at all costs, do _not_ engage him directly.”

 

Varric laughs, “I wouldn't dare,”

 

“So, Fenris, you'll need to hold his attention from everyone else at all times without fail,” I turn to the elf, “Do absolutely everything you can to piss him off.”

 

“Which should be easy for _you_ ,” Anders mutters.

 

“Understood, Hawke,” he nods, then turns to the mage with a menacing smile. Anders cringes.

 

“Be careful what you say, _friend_. I could suddenly lose my nerve in battle and let the enemy slip past me in a moment of low self-esteem. The ogre would squash you like a bug.” he cracks his knuckles.

 

“Now that would be a shame, because if I go down, you go down... _friend._ ” The healer replies, his hand sparking with electricity.

 

“Enough!” I hiss, stepping between them. “If you two want to kill each other, fine. Just do it after we get out of this blighted place,”

 

“I'm with Hawke on this,” Varric pipes up, hoisting Bianca off his back and testing the crossbow's gears. “As much as I'd love to see you ladies duke it out, we've got more important things to attend to right now.”

 

I make a point of making eye contact with Anders, then Fenris. The former mutters something that sounds like, “Fine,” and the latter only grunts and turns away. I grit my teeth and wonder how long we can keep this up.

 

“Okay,” I say, “let's get this over with. Just remember that he probably won't be alone. Once I administer the poison, I'll fall back to rejoin the rest of you and help pick off any other darkspawn that appear.” 

 

I start walking towards the entrance to the cavern, then stop suddenly. I look back at the three men under my command. A human mage, a dwarf rogue, and an elf warrior. What would father have made of all this? I grin. “Group hug before we go in?”

 

Anders chuckles, Varric smirks, and – by Andraste's pyre – I swear I can almost make out a jovial glint in Fenris' eyes as he shakes his head and walks past me. Maybe we'll be all right after all.

 

* * *

  
When the ogre charges, I am  _so_ not all right. My legs lock in place as I will them not to shake. My one saving grace is to yell as loudly as I can, jolting my body out of it's paralysis – to move, I care not how - just to move, dammit. It's not a moment too soon.  T he massive beast comes barrelling past me and crashes headlong into the wall. 

 

The ogre's horns, almost as long as I am tall, have become lodged in the stone and as it struggles to get free, Anders casts a spell to  embed the monster's legs in rock . Fenris is upon it now, shouting as he leaps at it's neck with his longsword. I can hear the whir of Bianca as Varric lets her bolts fly freely into the ogre's back.  I t growls with each hit, but it seems more annoyed than hurt.

 

I dash towards the ogre, gripping my daggers, the  leather hilts pressed tight into my sweaty palms. With another yell, I leap onto it's back and slash at it's neck with both poisoned blades.  B efore I can leap off again, the ogre wrenches it's head free of the wall and his huge arm flails backwards, sending me flying into a nearby pillar. 

 

“Hawke!” I hear Anders shout. Then the pain comes, jolting through me as I slump down to the ground, head spinning. I try to pull myself to my feet, but my limbs are useless. And that is when the genlocks appear, no less than five stalking towards me. My mind is screaming, but I cannot move. _No, not now_ _!_

 

Fenris yells something I can't quite make out as he continues to fend off the ogre,  which seems  impervious to the crossbow bolts and gashes marring the muscles of it's giant body.

 

A rain of Varric's arrows comes down and the genlocks fall, writhing. But now there is another group of darkspawn running towards us. Suddenly, Anders stands between them and me. I had no idea he could move so quickly. Or has time slowed down? Magic flows from his hands, encasing the enemy in a wave of ice. 

 

Of course, I've never stopped to watch him fight before. The mage is a swirling blur of blue light, spinning his staff to slash at the frozen darkspawn with the bladed end and shoot bolts of lightning with the other. One by one, they fall to his lethal dance. It's beautiful.

 

I feel a sudden surge of heat against my skin as a giant fireball strikes the ground, engulfing a nearby hurlock in flames.  It's skeletal face contorts in agony  as it shrieks. My eyes dart around to find the source of the magic and see the blurred form of Bethany running into the cavern.  _Maker, no._ I try to get up again but fail.

 

“Anders,” I gasp as he kneels beside me, hands already hovering over my body to heal. “I can't let her see me like this,”

 

But it's too late. “Marian!” My sister is now standing over me, panting. “Are you all right?”

 

I nod and it takes more energy than I bargained for just to raise my hand and give her a thumbs-up sign. I can tell she's concerned, but at the same time, royally ticked off at me.

 

“What in The Void were you - ”

 

“We're good here, Bethany,” Anders interrupts, “But Varric and Fenris need backup.”

 

Her jaw is a taut line, but she nods and turns away.

 

“Bee,” I manage to force out, “please be careful,”

 

She glares back at me then dashes off. I am such a hypocrite.

 

I raise my eyes to give the healer a look of thanks but his expression is serious, fully concentrating now on mending my wounds. It's not long before my strength returns and Anders helps me up so that we can rejoin the others.

 

Across the room, the ogre is almost done for. He must be feeling the effects of the toxin since he's now staggering around  and takes broad swipes at Fenris, who manages to dodge each time although it's clear that he's tiring. Bethany raises glowing hands to direct a healing spell his way, but as she does I can see a genlock coming up behind her, sword in hand. I raise my bow and let loose an arrow straight through it's neck. My sister turns upon hearing the sound and finishes it off with a stab of her staff's blade. Her eyes find mine in acknowledgement and I'm relieved to see her anger  is  gone. 

 

Bethany turns back towards the ogre and unleashes fire upon the beast, incinerating it as it howls in a shower of intense flame, crumpling onto the ground with a heavy thud.

 

“And _that's_ for Carver,” she declares as I walk towards her to wrap my arm about her shoulder and give her a squeeze. “Ow!” she looks down, realizing that she has a long cut on her arm.

 

“Ouch - better have Anders see to that,”

 

“Marian,” her voice is sharp now, “you know, I'm not a child anymore.”

 

“I know, sister.” I stare at the smouldering carcass of the ogre, “I know.”

 

I look around to survey the damage. About a dozen dead darkspawn litter the room. The healer is tending to Fenris' injuries as the elf walks towards us. The dwarf, however, seems nowhere to be found.

 

“Ugh!” Varric grunts in disgust as he steps out from behind the dead ogre, tiny in comparison to the huge, charred body. He's certainly wasted no time in looting the corpses. “Who knew a creature could smell as bad as it looks?” 

 

“You're all right, Hawke?” Fenris asks.

 

“Fabulous,” I reply, “Aren't you glad we brought so many mages?” He only replies with a small smile. But it's nice to see for a change.

 

“Ooh, crispy!” Anders pokes the ogre's corpse with his staff and saunters up to rest a healing hand on Bethany's arm. “Well done.”

 

Varric grins. “I'll say. Maybe even a little 'overdone,'”

 

“Maker, I'm starving,” I clap my companions on the back as we make our way back to camp. “Barbecue, anyone?”


	9. Changes

 

**Justice**

 

“ _I knew that dwarf could not be trusted. Now you have been left in these ruins to die.”_

 

Anders is not listening. He does, however, direct a stray thought my way in regards to stating the obvious. He and his fool companions are trying desperately to find a way out since Bartrand's inevitable betrayal: stealing a lyrium idol and trapping us here in this primeval thaig so that he might keep the spoils for himself. Such a disgustingly...mortal thing to do.

 

We are now well below where the Deep Roads end; perhaps even further beneath the earth than any have dared to venture since the ancient dwarves constructed and inhabited this settlement centuries ago. My one small consolation is that the place exudes magic. It is also entirely untouched by the corruption of the darkspawn.

 

Somehow, the dwarves discovered a way to thin the Veil to such a degree that the lyrium statues, columns, and the very walls themselves invoke the Fade. Even I had no idea dwarves were capable of such a thing. To me, it is as though someone has cracked open a window to let in the fresh air. Perhaps an eternity here, albeit somewhat lonely, would not be so bad.

 

“ _Well, isn't that just peachy for you, spirit,” my host snaps at me, “It's touching to know that when I'm gone, you'll still have my rotting corpse to keep you company.”_

 

“ _At the very least, Anders, I will finally have silence from you.”_

 

“ _You know, us 'mere mortals' aren't exactly keen on the idea of starving to death in this blighted place.”_

 

“ _Nonsense. You certainly will not.”_

 

“ _Really?” he is surprised by my seeming optimism._

 

“ _You will no doubt suffocate first.”_

 

“ _Thanks. It's nice to see you've got faith in us.”_

 

“ _Need I remind you that it was faith in each other that put you here in the first place?”_

 

“Anders,” Hawke calls out from the other side of the room, “we've got the door open!”

 

“ _You were saying, Justice?”_

 

Hmph. It seems that together, Hawke and the other rogue, Varric, have managed to unlock the room's only remaining exit, save the one Bartrand barred from the outside. Just when I was starting to get used to the prospect of staying.

 

“Low five, my good dwarf!” Hawke sticks her hand out and Varric slaps it, grinning. “It looks like you'll have your chance to get back at Bartrand after all,”

 

“ _Why do they do that?” I ask Anders._

 

“ _Do what?”_

 

“ _That...hand slapping thing?”_

 

“ _Um, it's hard to explain. Can't we talk about this later?”_

 

“It looks like it leads into a crypt of some kind,” Merrill remarks, poking her head through the door. 

 

Anders can feel the presence of darkspawn nearby and shivers slightly. “Just so you all know,” he says, pointing towards the rooms beyond, “we're not alone...”

 

“ _You must be aware, Anders, that even if you escape this place and defeat the enemies that lie ahead, your party no longer has the provisions to survive the journey back to the surface. That Bartrand has left you with nothing.”_

 

“ _We'll figure something out, Justice.”_

 

He, too, has doubts but for some reason, remains hopeful. Completely irrational, if you ask me.

 

“ _I hope for your sake that you do,” I reply._

 

“Anything's better than just sitting around, waiting for death,” Fenris says, lifting his sword onto his shoulder. 

 

“For once, I agree with you, elf,” Anders sighs. “Lead on,” 

 

* * *

Within the ancient crypt, we are set upon by more darkspawn than ever before. While Anders, Hawke and their companions manage to defeat them handily, there seems no end to them. Their energy is flagging. They will not be able to keep up this pace much longer.

 

Surrounded by so much evil, it comes as no surprise to me when the demon appears. It has possessed a Rock Wraith, with limbs of jagged stone, a skeletal torso and head emanating dark energy. It's rocky appendages grate against each other with dry, scraping sounds as it moves towards us. It stops, glowering down at us through vacant eyes and I can feel it's wretched hunger seething from it.

 

I want to lash out at it while we still have a chance – to tear off it's head and suffer not a moment longer keeping such a creature alive. For some reason, Anders restrains me.

 

“ _What are you doing? Let me out!”_

 

“ _Calm yourself, Justice.”_

 

“ _Calm myself? You know as well as I do what that thing is!”_

 

“ _Just wait a minute – I'm trying to hear what's going on.”_

 

It seems that the hunger demon is trying to make Hawke an offer: that it will allow us passage out of this crypt in exchange for not harming any more of the minions it feeds on.

 

“ _No – you must stop her!”_

 

“Don't fall for it, Hawke.” Anders interjects. “It'll only betray you,” Thankfully, we are of the same mind when it comes to demons.

 

“Of course,” Hawke replies, much to my surprise. “Like I'd ever make a deal with a demon,” She shakes her head and seems annoyed at Anders' assumption. It even looks as though most of her companions agree, hands gripping their weapons tighter, awaiting the order to strike. 

 

Perhaps these people are not quite as mercenary and self-serving as I originally thought. All except Merrill, who frowns as Hawke leans over and whispers something into her ear. “As you wish,” the Dalish elf mutters and casts a spell, projecting it at the demon and blasting it into oblivion.

 

We dodge and shield ourselves against fiery bits of bone and rock while it's ominous voice fades away, “You will regret this, human...”

 

“Not likely,” Hawke retorts, kicking at the debris settling around us. This woman is nothing if not...interesting, to say the least.

 

She turns to her companions, “Well, if there's a key somewhere, there's got to be a door. Shall we?” she smiles, linking arms with her sister. And so we forge on to face the next wave of darkspawn ahead.

 

* * *

 

As the body of the Ancient Rock Wraith crumbles at our feet, I am filled with an immense feeling of what the humans call 'relief'. Anders can also sense that this is finally the last of the corrupted that we must face.

 

“Thank the Maker,” he sighs.

 

“ _Thank whatever imaginary beings you wish, Anders. But even a little gratitude for lending you my power in this useless endeavour would be far more appropriate.”_

 

“ _You already know what I think. What more do you want?”_

 

“ _Your acknowledgement once in a while would be appreciated.”_

 

“ _Yes, yes. Consider yourself duly acknowledged, Justice.”_

 

I am still not satisfied, though I cannot explain why. But Anders' attention has now turned elsewhere, and he finishes healing his companions while they pick through the spoils of our battle.

 

“Are you feeling all right, Bethany?” the healer asks. “You're looking rather pale. Why don't you sit for a moment and let me have a closer look at you,”

 

Hawke's younger sister has been more and more tired lately, but I had assumed it was due to a weak constitution or perhaps her inexperience in battle. Come to think of it, I realize now that she has also been very quiet as of late, choosing to lag behind our party instead of walking ahead as usual to chat with her sister, Varric or Merrill. As these observations come to mind, Anders begins to share my concern.

 

“Oh, I'm fine,” Bethany waves as Anders strides towards her, “don't worry about me.” I am certain she is lying. But before Anders can confirm my suspicions, Varric suddenly lets out a surprised whoop from an adjacent room. 

 

“Come take a look at this!” he yells. We all rush to his side and find the dwarf standing knee-deep in treasure.

 

“Andraste's flaming knickers,” Anders breathes, taking in the sight of more riches than any of us have ever seen or will likely ever see again.

 

“Bartrand can keep his sodding idol,” Varric laughs as we wade through the piles of gold to open the half dozen or so ornate chests.

 

“ _I wonder how long it will be before they start killing each other for a larger share?” I muse to Anders._

 

“ _What would be the point? I thought you said we weren't getting out of here alive, anyway.”_

 

There is a loud click as Hawke picks the lock of the largest chest, accompanied by a heavy thud as the jewel-encrusted lid is pushed open. “Aha!” she exclaims, holding up a golden key for all of us to see. “It looks like we've got our ticket out of here,”

 

“ _I am betting that the blood mage will be the first to go, followed by Hawke's sister, then -”_

 

But Anders cuts me off, his mind sharply reeling at my thoughts.

 

“ _Justice - stop it!”_

 

“ _What? You know I'm -”_

 

“ _Just. Don't.”_

 

* * *

 

Hawke's key unlocks a passage leading to higher ground – one that we are able to follow back up to our original campsite, in fact. It seems that the hunger demon was indeed speaking the truth (at least about a couple of things) after all. I suppose stranger things have been known to happen.

 

So indeed, it should have come as no surprise to find that we were not completely left without provision, after all. On the road to camp, we encounter the dwarf, Bodahn and his son, Sandal, running up to greet us.

 

“We knew you would return!” Bodahn exclaims, clapping Hawke on the back. “Messere Bartrand told us you were defeated, but Sandal and I wouldn't believe him. Could you imagine, we almost had to fight him and the other hirelings just for them to leave us one of the carts!”

 

Suddenly, we hear Bethany stagger behind us and turn to see her wavering, raising a hand and gasping for breath.

 

“Just – just a moment, I need to - ”

 

“Bee!” Hawke rushes forward in time to catch her, just as her legs begin to buckle.

 

Bethany's face is pallid, her eyes vacant and clouded by a grey haze. She lies limply in Hawke's arms, too tired to move and barely able to speak. “Great Maker, you're burning up!” Hawke places a hand against her sister's forehead.

 

Anders kneels beside them, taking Bethany's hand in his. He raises a mana-infused hand over her, scrutinizing her condition. This is not good.

 

“ _Bollocks.” Anders curses to himself, and I feel his heart grow heavy. “What am I going to say to her?”_

 

“ _You must tell her the truth.”_

 

“ _I know, but...”_

 

“Anders?” Hawke's voice registers that she has read his dark expression, “What's wrong with her? You can heal her, can't you?” The look on her face tells me that she already knows the answer.

 

“I-I'm sorry, Hawke,” he swallows, his throat dry. He bites his lip, hard enough to taste blood. “It's the taint. It's...beyond my capacity to cure.”

 

“No!” she pleads, violently shaking her head in disbelief.

 

“It's all right, Marian,” Bethany's voice is a hoarse whisper, “I'm just...sorry. I should have been more careful,”

 

Hawke's blue eyes are beginning to well up with tears, but she seems to find the will to hold them back, perhaps from sheer determination. “It is _not_ all right, Bee. Don't you dare start talking like it's somehow your fault. We'll fix this. There's always a way,” she looks up at Anders, “there's got to be. Isn't there?”

 

Anders cannot meet her gaze. He stares down at the ground between them.

 

“ _She is beyond aid, Anders. There is nothing you can do.”_

 

“ _There must be something.”_

 

Then, like a flash of light in a dark corner, an idea brightens his mind.

 

“Look, there may be a chance,” he starts, “but it's a small one...”

 

“It's better than nothing. What other options do we have? I'm not about to sit around and watch my sister die, Anders.”

 

He nods. “I'll need to have a look at my maps again.” Hawke produces them with a shaky hand that I can tell she is working very hard to steady.

 

“ _Is it wise to give them hope, mage? Time is running out. She may not last -”_

 

“ _Shut up! Let me think!”_

 

“Here,” Anders points to a spot on the map that we have taken pains to avoid thus far. “I'll explain along the way,” 

 

* * *

Hawke has barely spoken to anyone since we left her dying sister with the Grey Wardens.

 

I have...mixed feelings about Anders' actions in the matter. On the one hand, I believe he risked a great deal by seeking out his former Warden comrades – especially after wishing to elude them for so long. In asking them to recruit Bethany, he also redeemed Stroud's debt to him, though it may have served him to better use; perhaps even to secure his own safety in future. It was not what I expected him to do.

 

“ _I suppose you thought I was just going to let her die, then? When I knew that there was even the slightest chance I could save her? How selfish do you think I am?”_

 

“ _You must admit, you have changed, my friend.”_

 

“ _We both have.”_

 

“ _But ultimately, I do believe you did the right thing. Sometimes justice requires sacrifice.”_

 

When we return to camp, Hawke goes to sit by the fire. She stares into it, hugging her knees against her chest, face devoid of expression. A sombre air settles upon our companions, who choose to retire to their tents early. They can sense that she desires to be left alone.

 _“We should do the same,” I say, and my host begins to walk away._

 

“Anders?”

 

He stops, but does not turn to face her.

 

“Please don't go.”

 

Anders closes his eyes and sighs.

 

“ _What in the Maker's name can I possibly do to help her?” he asks me._

 

I have no idea what to say. He turns around and sits down next to her.

 

They sit together in silence for several minutes before Hawke asks, “Do you think she'll...”

 

He bites his lip. “It's...hard to know. I'm sworn to secrecy on the details, but suffice it to say, if she survives their initiation she'll be fine. It may be a while yet before you hear whether or not she made it through okay. And if she does, she'll have a tough life from here on out. ”

 

Hawke kicks at the dirt with her heel, pushing a small stone deeper into the ground.

 

“Well,” she murmurs, “she's not a child anymore.” She looks up. “But at least she'd be alive, right?”

 

Anders is unsure how to answer her question without lying or implying a loaded meaning to the word. He decides to simply nod.

 

“Will I ever see her again?”

 

“I don't know. Maybe. She may even be able to write to you from time to time.”

 

She glances at him with a small, weak smile. “Anders, if it weren't for you -”

 

He shakes his head, “Nothing is for certain.”

 

“I know. But if you hadn't come along, what's for certain is that my sister would be dead by now. You've given Bethany a fighting chance.”

 

Perhaps this was not a waste of time after all. Perhaps we were meant to be here. Perhaps...I was wrong.

 

Impossible.

 _  
_ Before I can prevent it from happening, Hawke wraps her arms around Anders and buries her face in his shoulder. For the first time, he feels the softness and warmth of her body against his and a weight - both light and heavy - resting upon him. 

 

“Thank-you,” she whispers into his ear.

 

She pulls away from him and dashes off into her tent without another word, just as he senses something cool and wet dot his skin and roll down his neck, slipping under his collar.


	10. Daughter

 

**Hawke**

 

I was undoubtedly the most horrid little girl in all of Ferelden. Poor Mother. She really did try. 

 

I remember the ribbons she plaited into my hair, back when my hair was long enough to braid. They were thin slips of pink, Antivan silk that fluttered in the wind and flew into my face when I ran. They'd catch on the branches of bushes when you played Hide and Seek. Then Mother would get cross at me for ruining them. Maker, how I detested the useless things, the pointlessness of hair that came down to my waist (and became no more than a handle for schoolboys to yank on). They simply got in the way. 

 

I remember the dresses she made me wear: with pinafores and stiff collars that made my neck itch, lined with flimsy lace ruffles that came undone if you did anything more strenuous than walking. But I ran everywhere back then. The lace would either slip down or fall out entirely and get trampled in the dirt when I played. The skirt made it sodding annoying when you wanted to hop a fence or scramble up a hill. Eventually, I took to hiking the thing up my thighs so I could sprint and climb decently. It simply got in the way. 

 

But Mother was having none of that. 

 

“ Marian,” she'd screech, “will you stop running for once, child?!” 

 

Maker, if I had a silver piece for every time she said to sit still, cross my legs, wipe the dirt off my face, quit tussling with Carver - or I'll never grow up to be a proper lady - well, I would be an extremely rich woman. Perhaps even wealthier than I am now. Maybe we might never have gone on that blighted Deep Roads expedition in the first place. And maybe my sister would still be with us today. 

 

There is still no word from Bethany or the Grey Wardens. We have no idea if she survived the taint or the mysterious initiation ritual that Anders spoke of. 

 

If Bethany _is_ still alive, I wonder where she is now. In a bed recovering somewhere, or in the Deep Roads, fighting the darkspawn? Maybe they took her to the Warden post in Amaranthine. It would be the first time one of us returned to Ferelden since the blight; would she be glad to be back home? Would she know how much we miss her? 

Bethany would have been the one to be at Mother's beck and call for the last three months. She would have escorted Mother to every tailor, every haberdasher, every purveyor of finery in Hightown without complaint. She would have gladly tried on every disgustingly frilly ball gown that Mother threw her way. She would have enjoyed inviting every noble within a block's vicinity to dine at the Amell estate. 

She might even have envied being in my place at this very moment: sitting in a satin dress that looks like a jaundiced, jewel-encrusted nug has vomited Orlesian lace all over it, while Mother tries to set her up with Seneschal Bran's son. 

 

But I am not Bethany. And my patience is wearing thin. Yet I am bound by the trappings of guilt just as surely as Mother once bound me by those awful ribbons, dresses and hair. 

 

I know this is Mother's way of coping. I know she's just distracting herself by trying to enjoy her restored nobility and wealth through all this shopping, decorating, socializing, even matchmaking. I know this is the "normal life" that Bethany always wanted. But it's driving me absolutely insane. 

 

And so is Angus Bran, the Seneschal's unbelievably dull heir. I daresay, however, that he is the spitting image of his smug, disdainful father – sitting across from me wearing a waistcoat that I am certain costs as much as a month's worth of food for a family of four in Lowtown. I detest the way he looks down his warty nose at Bodahn when the dwarf enters the sitting room to pour us more tea; how he picks his fingernails while saying how servants today take far too many liberties - such as days off. 

 

Mother has been fawning over the bland, pasty-faced fool for the better part of two hours, while I tune him out. As he drones on, my thoughts wander back to the time when we camped out on Sundermount after finally delivering Flemeth's amulet. I got up to relieve Aveline of her turn at watch and decided to walk back up the winding path to the mountain's peak and have a look around. From there, I could see our campsite below and could make out the sleeping forms of Merrill, Anders and Bethany curled up by the fire. 

 

It was a cool, clear night. I sat upon the ruins of a stone wall and as the breeze blew through to the ends of my hair, I folded my arms to warm myself. From the mountaintop, the vast dome of darkness above was dotted with an inconceivable number of stars – far more than I had ever seen before. Or perhaps I'd just never stopped to notice. 

 

I heard footsteps coming up the path and turned to see the blanket-wrapped figure of Bethany approaching. 

 

“ Can't sleep?” 

 

My sister shook her head. “Not a wink. Not after what that witch, Flemeth said,” She sat down beside me and pulled half of her blanket over my shoulders. “What did she mean: our 'struggles have only just begun'? Haven't we been through enough?” 

 

“ Oh, I'm sure she was just trying to rattle our chains,” I chuckled softly, “You don't really think there's something to all that prophecy nonsense, do you?” 

 

“ You have to admit, Marian, it's a little hard not to take someone seriously when they can turn into a dragon.” 

“ Be that as it may, it doesn't mean that she or anyone else can accurately predict the future, too.” 

 

“ I guess. But it's still...disturbing,” 

  
“Well, legendary 'Witch of The Wilds' or not, I'll be damned if I let anyone else steer my fate.” 

 

“ Don't you ever think that you might actually have a destiny?” 

 

“ Not one I can't choose for myself, no,” I laughed. 

 

“ I wish I had your confidence, sister,” she murmured and went silent. 

 

If only I could go back to that moment, I would have apologized for being so stupidly insensitive. It's not like Bethany ever had a choice in her fate. She never chose to be born with magical abilities. She never chose to spend her life in constant fear of capture or persecution. What an idiot I was for flaunting my freedom so carelessly, for being so oblivious. 

 

But if she was ever bitter about it, she certainly never let on. She always managed to see the bright side of everything. In truth, I wish I had her optimism. And now, I wish that I had told her so. 

 

“You know ,” she said and leaned back against the wall, “when I see a sky as beautiful as this one, it makes me think of how tiny and insignificant we are.” 

 

“Personally, Bee, I've been a little distracted by all the shades and dragons that keep attacking us here...”

 

She bumped me with her shoulder. “Seriously. I bet you could spend your entire life just trying to count all the stars. It makes me wonder if, in the end, there's a higher purpose to everything – down to the all the little things that happen in our lives, be they good or bad.” 

 

I sighed and thought of all the sacrifices our parents made just to keep us safe. “Maybe. I'd like to think so. If there isn't, then what would be the point in fighting to be free at all? If everything is meaningless - if we're merely the random products of chance - then we all might as well accept our lot and give up striving for anything better.” 

“Still, it's an amazing world, isn't it?” Although there was not a cloud in the sky, the smaller, dimmer stars clustered together to form soft, wide, misty bands of light. It was a breathtaking sight.

 

“ It sure can be, sometimes,” 

“Hey, what if...” she turned to look at me with a crooked grin, “What if our sun and our moon were really just like those stars up there? Just two among a countless number of other stars. Then maybe there could be other suns and moons out there, rising and setting on other worlds, just like ours.”

 

“ Wouldn't that be something? Maybe living on those worlds, there could be other Humans, Elves, Dwarves, or Qunari,” 

 

“ Who knows? Maybe there are! Or maybe there could even be other kinds of people out there we don't know about,” 

 

“ I wonder what they'd be like,” I said, then snickered. “I wonder if they'd get along just as abominably as we all do down here,” 

 

Bethany stopped laughing. “I wonder if there could be a world out there without magic,” 

 

“ Would you...live there?” 

 

“ In a heartbeat.” she whispered. 

 

“ Then how about a world where there _is_ magic, but it's neither feared nor despised...” 

 

“ Of course,” My sister sighed. “But while you're at it, you may as well make a world without the blight, without war, and without slavery, too.” 

 

 

“ Ooh!” Bethany suddenly pointed. A falling star streaked overhead, a twinkling trail of light across the sky. 

 

I'll never forget the look of delight on her face then, shining in the moonlight. You know how hope is like a ray of sunshine in the darkest of places? Just when you think you're completely lost, it's just enough to illuminate the way. That's what seeing my sister's joy was to me. Light. 

 

"So, what did you wish?" she giggled, "I bet it was it for And-"

 

"Hey, big mouth!" I nudged her, nervously glancing down at our campsite to make sure everyone was still asleep. "Absolutely not," I hissed, "Besides, you know I don't believe in such things," Sometimes wishing just...gets in the way.

 

I lied. And not just to her. I guess I've lied to myself for as long as I can remember. See, for once in my sorry life, I did make a wish. It just wasn't the one Bethany thought I would. But wish, I did. Even if I refused to believe that it could actually come true. 

  
“Marian?” I look up at Mother's voice to see her raise an eyebrow at me, teacup daintily poised at her lips. 

 

“ Mmm? Oh yes,” I blink and nod, trying to pretend that I've been listening the whole time. 

 

“ As I was saying,” Angus Bran lowers his serpentine voice to a hiss, “apparently there's a healer in the undercity who takes it upon himself to cure the ails of the Ferelden refugees for free,” 

 

“ Maker forbid!” I gasp, all too sardonically for my mother's liking. She casts me a stern warning of a glance. I literally bite my tongue. The taste of blood is a welcome and familiar one. 

 

“ I mean, why would anyone want to do that?” he shrugs, his finely manicured hands forming a quizzical gesture, “Just let them die already – they're just taking up space,” 

 

That does it. I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over the tea service in front of us. 

 

“ Indeed,” I snap, “on the subject of taking up space, you should leave this house before I break every pathetic bone in your puny little body.” 

 

“ Marian!” Mother stands and begins to apologize profusely to Angus, who has gone paler than I thought possible. I think he's choking on his tea. Good. 

 

But I'm not done yet. I narrow my eyes and thrust my face towards his with a predatory stare. “You'll have to crawl your way into the sewers to beg for the healer's help,” I growl, “just like your father does every time he catches something from the whores at the Blooming Rose,” I spin on my heel and stalk out of the room, slamming the door behind me. 

 

I lean back on the wall, the hallway spinning. I can't breathe. I rush upstairs to my room, tearing at the clasps of the gown, clawing at the corset. I can hear the muffled sounds of Mother's placating voice, the indignant whining of that pretentious slug of a Seneschal's son. I just need to breathe. I kick off the silk slippers that Mother bought me and rest my head on the ornate wood post of my new canopy bed. Just breathe. 

 

I need to get into my own clothes. I need to get out. I need to breathe in the air that sweeps across the Free Marches, cool upon my face. To feel the weight of my bow in my hands and my daggers strapped across my back. I need to stop sitting around, feeling sorry for myself. I just need to do something. Anything. 

 

I want to see my friends again. I want to laugh with them, to fight alongside them. I miss Varric's stories. Losing to Isabela at cards. Merrill's rambling. Aveline's reserve. Fenris, brooding over a bottle of wine. Anders...sod it all, I just miss Anders. 

 

I throw open the doors of my wardrobe and dig through the contents, flinging aside the finery until I come up with my old linen tunic, breeches and leather boots. I exchange my impractical frock for the soft, comfortable garb that rests on my skin, loose and freeing. At last, clothing that breathes and moves with – not against – me. When I slip on my boots and feel the soft, broken-in leather fold around my feet and calves like a second skin, I let out an audible sigh. I almost feel whole again. 

 

I can hear Mother stomping up the stairs louder than you'd think a petite, middle-aged woman could. Here she comes. I take a deep breath. Right on cue, Mother strides briskly into my room without knocking. 

 

"Marian," she stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, "what in the Maker's name do you think you were doing?" 

 

"Merely taking out the trash, Mother," I fold my arms and lean back on a bed post. 

 

She shakes her head. "Angus Bran is a nobleman - " 

 

"There is nothing even remotely 'noble' about that - well, even saying 'man' is a stretch..." 

 

“ He was our _guest_ ,” 

 

“ He never should have been. And he'll never set foot in this house again, either.” 

 

“ But he's the Seneschal's son,” 

 

“ I don't give a rat's arse _whose_ son he is – he could be the Grand Cleric or the Viscount himself for all I care. If he's got such blatant disregard for human life, then I say to The Void with him!” I rise angrily to my feet along with my voice. 

 

“ I'll not have any child of mine use such language with me,” she glares and straightens to her full height. As she points her chin out, there's no mistaking the nobility in her bearing. “ _Bethany_ would never -” 

 

I roll my eyes. “ Yes, and if Bethany were here, I'm sure that rainbows and sweets would simply flow from her blessed lips even if you invited a horde of darkspawn to tea - ” 

“Don't you take that tone with me, Marian Hawke,” she glowers.

 

“- but she's not,” I continue over her, “So you'll just have to put up with _me_ , Mother.” 

 

It's then that she finally says exactly what I knew she would. The truth that has stayed snagged in my gut like a burr for the last three months. The sting of those words tears at my me, a piercing more painful than ripping a barbed arrow from my flesh. 

“It's _your_ fault she's gone. I begged you not to take her on the expedition, but you didn't listen,”

“Do you realize what we had to do there just to buy back this place for you?” I practically shout, pointing upwards at the high, engraved ceilings.

 

“ And I would give it all up just to have my daughter back,” she yells back, tears in her eyes. 

 

I need to get out of here. I crouch in silence at the foot of my bed and withdraw something I've hidden underneath for far too long. I sling the dusty, holstered blades across my back and turn towards the door. I hear my mother sniffling. 

 

“ Where are you going?” 

 

“ Out.” I say without looking at her. Just before the threshold, I stop. “Has it never occurred to you, Mother, that I would gladly do the same?” 

 

I don't wait for an answer. I just walk out of the estate and into the night. 


	11. Nobody Expects the Inquisition

 

**Anders**

 

I return to my clinic only to find it a complete shambles. While I was away, the volunteers received two sets of unwelcome visitors: first, the Coterie and then later, the Templars. Thankfully, no one was hurt. But in both cases, the place got ransacked by thieves guild and Chantry alike. It figures.

 

The mess they were so kind to leave behind proved that almost everything was rifled through and anything with the slightest bit of value was pilfered. They even wrecked the sodding crates I used as a makeshift writing desk, the blighters! It wouldn't surprise me in the least, however, to discover that even my volunteers may have absconded with anything not nailed down.

 

“ _Th_ _at influx of gold from the Deep Roads sure came at a good time, don't you think?”_ I proudly survey the freshly-stocked hospice, now complete with locking supply cabinets. (That should keep any nosy Templars away from my lyrium draughts!) In between all the patients I've seen since my return, it's taken several weeks' worth of work just to get the place back into some semblance of order.

 

“ _Indeed. Most fortuitous. A shame, however, that it may have cost a young woman her life,” is Justice's reply._

 

“ _She could still be all right – we just haven't heard either way yet.”_

 

“ _It has been nearly three months, Anders.”_

 

“ _Hey, the Wardens don't exactly have the most sophisticated communications system, you know.”_

 

Three months. Has it really been that long? Twelve weeks since I convinced Stroud to make Bethany a Grey Warden. That makes it exactly nine weeks and two days since the night that Hawke...nine weeks and two days since I felt her head on my shoulder, since that moment she refused to let me see her cry. And eight weeks now since we returned to Kirkwall to divide the spoils of the expedition and part ways.

 

I can't begin to imagine how she's handled things - the three months of an agonizing wait just to find out about her younger sister. Even worse, she was the one who had to go back home to a mother who's already lost her only son and say, _“Well, I've got good news and bad news. The good news is: we're stinking rich! The bad news is: your youngest daughter may either have perished from the taint or she's been condemned to fight the darkspawn for what's left of her now shortened life.”_

 

“ _That Marian Hawke is a strong woman,” Justice reminds me, “Far tougher than most, in my estimation. Regardless, there is no reason to ponder such matters anymore. Your acquaintance with her and her friends has come to an end.”_

 

He's right, of course. But I can't stop thinking about her. I can still feel her arms around me, a single tear falling upon my neck. Maker, why did she have to go and do that?

 

I was perfectly content. Really, I was. I mean, we were just fooling around, that's all. All that flirting - it wasn't ever going to go anywhere, right? Just two people too clever for their own good, enjoying their cleverness. It happens. Maybe the next thing you know, you have a bit of fun together and you move on. You get it out of your system. Like eating or sleeping or taking a piss. End of story. At least that's the way it's always worked before. So why does just the thought of doing that to _her_ suddenly make me so...uncomfortable?

 

I don't know. And Justice thinks I'm an idiot.

 

“ _I do not think you are an idiot, Anders_ __.”_ _

 

“ _Oh?_ _”_

 

“ _I know you are.”_

 

But I can't help it. It's as though a tiny piece of her has somehow slipped beneath my skin and found it's way into my very blood. Floating down that turbulent stream who knows how long until it finally decided to dock right inside the deepest part of me. And now there's an invisible, intangible thread anchored there, linked straight to her. I know it exists. I know I'm not imagining it. I can feel it pull on me more and more the longer we're apart.

  
Justice can't begin to comprehend it. Neither can I. But when I try to sort it out, I can't sleep. The thoughts rush through my mind whenever I close my eyes. They just keep going around in circles, again and again. The next thing I know, it's almost two in the blighted morning and I'm still tossing and turning on that stiff, unyielding cot. The stench of the chokedamp is smothering me and my temples are throbbing.

 

So I get up. I figure I'll go for a walk. Clear my head. I can barely decipher the questions, but I still want answers. I just don't know where I'm going to find them. It's late, and the streets are practically empty. Not a soul around. Suits me fine. I don't think I could stand to be around anyone else right now. There's only the sound of the wind and my feet on the pavement, a soft tap, tap, tapping. I don't care where my legs take me – just so long as it's anywhere other than that sewer with the smell of despair in the air.

 

When my feet finally stop moving, I look up and find myself in Hightown. Why here? I hardly ever have reason to come here. In fact, the last time I visited this part of the city was to sell some health potions I'd made. That was almost four weeks ago. It was late afternoon and I was just leaving Hubert's Fine Goods. I paused briefly to adjust the new sack of coins in my pocket. And that was when I saw her.

 

It was no more than a passing moment. If I hadn't stopped then, I probably would have missed her entirely. It was the dress that caught my attention. It was a deep turquoise blue - a simple, form-fitting sheath of silk that draped against her curves. It swirled slightly around her ankles like ripples in a pool of water as she followed her mother down the stone steps and into the market. I didn't even recognize her until the thought crossed my mind that the dress was the colour of her eyes.

 

It was the way the woman carried herself that almost made me think that it wasn't Hawke, after all. Something about the way she held her head, something in the slope of her shoulders – it wasn't anything like the Marian Hawke I knew. Or at least, thought I knew. I mean, who am I to claim to really know her anyway? Maybe this is who she really is; that person who comes out when you don't think anyone else is watching.

 

She was in the middle of a heated discussion with her mother. The way they looked at each other as they spoke told me that they weren't arguing over doeskin gloves or pearl necklaces. Even so, Hawke still looked...poised. Almost regal. Maybe this is where she belongs.

 

I'm sure she's happy. Who wouldn't be? She worked damn hard to get where she is, after no end of sacrifice on her part, too. I wouldn't blame her a whit for wanting to enjoy it, for wanting to taste her wealth. She deserves a normal life. A life with a comfortable and prosperous future. And now she has it. If she's happy, then I'm happy for her.

 

“ _Then why is it that you are inconsolably miserable, human?” Justice asks._

 

That's the hundred-sovereign question, isn't it? So I throw myself into my work. It's easy. It's what I'm good at. It's what I know. And there's no end to the people who need help, no end to the people who are hurting. Especially not in Darktown.

 

It's the silence that's tricky. If the quiet moments, the times of inactivity, last too long - if I'm not careful - my thoughts will drift to her, waves rolling back to the pull of the shore. It's inevitable.

 

No. I refuse to believe that. I know can fight this. Stop being so selfish!

 

Instead, I refocus on the mission. _Our_ mission. I pour all of my passion - all of my mind and all of my heart - into writing the manifesto. The next thing I know, the hours fly by, then the days, then the weeks. But never the nights. At the end of the day, who is there to heal the healer?

 

Maker. Maybe I _am_ an idiot. At least this is what I tell myself when I finally realize that I'm standing in the middle of the square, staring up at the Hawke estate. Again.

 

How many times have I come here now, night after sleepless, torturous night? Only to stand under cover of darkness in the exact same place, behind the same stone pillar, staring up at the same set of windows on the same sodding house. And then once here, only to ask myself the same stupid questions and – surprise, surprise - find no answers.

 

Tonight, however, is different. Tonight, I am not alone.

 

“ You know, you could just go up to her door and knock.”

 

I nearly jump - reaching for my staff before recognizing the deep, familiar voice of Varric, smirking in the shadows behind me.

 

Great. Just great. I lean back on the pillar. “A little late to be paying a call, don't you think?” I ask as quietly as I can.

 

I see the silhouette of his shoulders move up and down in the dim light. “It might creep out the family - just a tad. But you have to admit, it sure beats being caught out here, lurking around in a getup that practically screams, 'Look at me, I'm a suspicious mage!'”

 

“ What're you doing here, anyway, dwarf?”

 

“ I should ask you the same thing,” he seats himself on a nearby crate and folds his arms.

 

“ You first,” I insist, mirroring him by crossing my own arms.

 

“ Let's just say that these...late night visits of yours have been attracting some attention. And not the kind that you're wanting, either.”

 

“ How come you're such an expert in what I want all of a sudden, Varric?” I retort, “Dare I ask how it is that you always seem to know so much about me?”

 

He laughs softly. “You're an open book, Blondie. But then, I get the impression that even you don't know what you really want. If it's any consolation, though, I don't think she does, either,” he tilts his head towards the house.

 

“ That's no concern of yours or mine,” I mutter.

 

“ And yet here we are,”

 

When I refuse to validate this with a response, he sighs and hops off the crate.

 

“ C'mon, Anders,” He pats my back with a gloved hand, “let me buy you a drink. I've a feeling you need one.”


	12. Closer

 

**Justice**

 

I have grown tired of telling Anders that this is a bad idea. But it makes no difference. As he consumes mug after mug of ale, I can feel my influence on him dwindle. It is an unusual sensation. His mind and my mind are...softer. Our senses are dulled. Sluggish. If we meet with danger, it will be difficult to make him react quickly enough to stay safe. He will be on his own.

 

Right now, however, he does not seem to care. He is oddly content. Almost giddy. He seems to enjoy exchanging stories with Varric as they sit in the dwarf's room at The Hanged Man. Perhaps it reminds him of happier times.

 

“You can't be serious, Blondie,” Varric laughs.

 

“Why would I lie?” Anders takes another swig of the drink. I feel the pungent liquid slide down his throat again, warming his insides.

 

“I don't know,” the dwarf shrugs, “but it's still too...bizarre.”

 

“And exactly how many of your stories _don't_ defy conventional belief?”

 

“So you actually admit to falling for all that bullshit?”

 

Anders chuckles. “I'll never get a straight answer from you, will I?”

 

“Well,” Varric leans on the table with a smile, unclasping his mug to fold his fingers together, “how about - just this once - I'll give you one,

 

“Really.”

 

“Really! Just don't bother asking about Bianca.”

 

“Hmm. So what's the catch?”

 

Varric grins at my host's skepticism. “No catch. I'll do it since you've been such a good sport.”

“Right...and how do I know you'd even tell me the truth?”

 

“You don't,” the dwarf laughs.

 

“Oh, what the heck. I'll bite,” Anders leans forward in his chair.

 

“Choose your question wisely, friend. This won't happen again.”

Anders takes his time to consider. Though hazy, his thoughts immediately flit to the one mystery that neither of us have been able to solve. 

 

A basket of food has been delivered to the clinic every other week since we returned from the expedition. Almost the size of a copper bathing tub, it takes two delivery boys to haul it into the clinic. It is always filled to the brim with an assortment of breads, fruits, cheeses and dried, cured meats. “Everything a growing boy needs,” Anders drools a little each time it arrives. 

 

Despite the generous quantity of goods, however, my host usually polishes off the whole lot in short order, down to the very last crumb. Then just before the end of the second week, a human delivery boy comes to collect the empty basket. He and another boy return a couple of days later with the basket filled. Whoever they are, their efficiency is commendable. 

 

The first time it came, Anders asked the boys what they knew about it – even tried to offer them some food in exchange – but they refused to say a word. Each time, I insisted upon following them, but then new patients would arrive and things would get too busy to deal with anything else. 

 

One time, the basket came late. Two days late, in fact. Anders' stomach seemed to know. 

 

“ _Perhaps that was the last of the free meals,” I suggested. “If so, good riddance. It has bothered me to no end thinking that in accepting them, you might be beholden to someone with less-than-sincere intentions.”_

 

“ _What? You actually think someone's plying me with food just so they can obtain some kind of...sexual favours from me?”_

 

“ _I thought nothing of the sort. That was entirely your own perverse imagination, mage.”_

 

Just as the words “bondage” and “baked goods” flashed through his mind, there was a knock on the door. 

 

“ Delivery for Anders,” a voice called out. 

 

“ Ah, yes,” he said, patting his belly. “A little late this time, don't you th-” 

 

But instead of two young boys carrying a basket, there were four burly men awkwardly hauling a large piece of furniture through the doors. 

 

“ Hey, wait a minute,” Anders waved his hands to stop them. 

 

“ Where d'you wan' it?” 

 

“ But I didn't order a...” 

 

They abruptly dropped their burden with annoyed groans. One of the men reached into a soiled pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held it out and pointed at the writing on the page. 

 

“ Says 'ere we're ta deliver it ta Anders at the clinic in Darktown. Dats you, right?” 

 

“ Yes, but...” 

 

“ An' dis 'ere's the only clinic in the undercity. So it's yers.” 

 

Anders shook his head. “I can't pay for this,” 

 

“ You don' hafta. It's done been paid for.” 

 

“ By who?” 

 

“ Dunno,” he shrugged. “Maybe ye gots a secret admirer.” He shot a glance at the other men, and they snickered before ambling out the door. 

 

“ What in The Void...” Anders sighed and took a closer look. It was, without a doubt, a writing desk. And one of considerable beauty, by human standards, judging by his reaction. He ran a hand along the smooth tabletop. It was simple, but made of dark, polished wood with a fine, swirling grain. Mahogany, perhaps? He asked himself. Or oak? Whatever it was, it could not have been cheap. 

Whoever this “secret admirer” was, they somehow must have known that he needed a desk. Which means that they would have known about what happened to his old one. The only people Anders could think of were his patients and volunteers. But there was no way any of them could possibly afford such an item, what more, actually go out of their way to purchase something as relatively frivolous as this.

 

Perhaps a group of them pooled their money to get it? That was much more plausible, but he couldn't see any reason why his mysterious benefactors would want to keep their gift secret. On the contrary, he thought, most of the people in Darktown would be more than happy to have you indentured to them in some way. Curiouser and curiouser. 

 

“All right, ye who knows so much,” he examines Varric's face, not wanting to miss the slightest change in expression, hoping to catch him in a lie. “Answer me this: who's been sending me all the gifts? There's no way _you_ wouldn't know who's behind it,”

 

“ _Good,” I say, “_ _You have been relying far too much upon someone whose identity and motives you know not,”_

 

“ _Well, despite your warnings, they haven't poisoned me with the food yet. If they wanted to kill me, surely they would have done it by now.”_

 

“What?!” Varric laughs, “You're gonna waste your question on _that_ ?” 

 

My host is crestfallen. “Hey, I'm serious,” 

 

“ _Has it really been that obvious?” he asks me._

 

“ _Apparently so,”_

 

“You haven't figured it out yet, huh?” He shakes his head, “Come _on_ , Blondie. You really need to get out of the sewers more often,”  


Anders is not one to be outwitted easily. And neither am I. But embarrassment and something else - a stirring of a stronger curiosity - easily overpowers his annoyance. 

 

“ _What are you doing? Ask about the First Enchanter or the Knight-Commander, or - ”_

 

“Well, fine,” he purses his lips, “then at least tell me how Hawke has been doing,” Oh, the blighted fool.

 

“Why don't you ask her yourself?” comes a voice from the doorway. We turn in surprise to see a grinning Marian Hawke, dressed in her usual leather armour and leaning on the door frame. “Miss me?” she asks, as her mischievous eyes lock firmly upon his own, and upon his heart.

 

A warm, tingling sensation runs through Anders' body. A childhood rhyme is recalled. Something that goes, _'missed me, missed me, now you've got to...'_

 

“Hawke!” Varric exclaims, lifting his feet off the chair next to Anders and pushing it towards her. “Come on in,”

 

She nods, but remains standing. “Thanks. You wanted to see me?” she asks the dwarf. 

 

Anders' eyebrows fly up. Interesting coincidence. Anders tries to make eye contact with him, but the latter's face gives nothing away. 

 

“Pah!” Varric swats his hand at the air, “Nothing that can't wait. Join us for a drink,”

“Thanks, but I'll pass this time. Was about to head home, actually. Just got caught up with Isabela.”  


“Who doesn't?” the dwarf snorts.

 

“Boy, I've missed you lot,” she laughs. “You're both looking well,” she tries to cast a surreptitious eye down my host's body.

 

“The feeling is mutual,” Varric says with a glance at Anders, who wills the colour from rushing to his face. “Speaking of mutual feelings,” the dwarf settles back and drapes an arm over the back of his chair, “Now that you're both here, there  _is_ something I ought to tell you,”

 

“Oh?” Anders asks, suspicious.

 

He nods, “It should be of significant interest to you both. Could you close the door, Hawke?” 

 

“Sure,” she shrugs, “sounds serious,” she says, looking at Anders.

 

His stomach begins to flutter.  _“Oh, no. He wouldn't dare...”_

_“Why not? He owes you no favours. You cannot depend on him to keep your secrets. It is your own fault for behaving so irrationally.”_

 

Anders furtively tries to think up excuses for being seen outside the Hawke estate late at night, but none sound convincing.  _Worse yet, he thinks, this might reveal to Hawke how he feels. Wait a minute – how does he feel, anyway?_ This is an exercise in futility, if you ask me.

 

“Anyway,” Varric continues in a lowered voice once the door is shut, “as I was saying...”

 

Anders holds his breath. 

 

“It sounds like there's a growing movement of individuals in town who are making, shall we say...travel arrangements - from the Gallows to outside Kirkwall.”

 

Anders exhales. 

 

“I thought that might cheer you up, Blondie,” Varric smiles.

“Help mages who want to flee the Circle, hmm?” Hawke murmurs. “Where do I sign up?”

 

The dwarf produces a folded piece of paper from the cuff of his glove and slides it across the table. “Just look for this contact down by the docks,” 

 

Hawke leans down to take the paper, but Anders beats her to it. 

 

“Hey!” she tries to grab it from his hand, but he holds it out of her reach. An easy enough feat at his height.

 

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head. 

 

At first, Hawke laughs, thinking it merely a game. But when she reaches for it again without success, her smile vanishes. 

 

“What in The Void do you think you're doing, Anders?”

 

“You've put yourself at risk far enough, Hawke,” he declares. “Not anymore,”

 

She glares at him. Her hands are clenched into fists, held poker straight at her sides. This is not good. 

 

“ _Yes, 'what in The Void' indeed are you doing, Anders? You cannot stand to make enemies of these people.”_

 

“ _I'm just trying to -”_

 

“Since when do  _you_ have the right to say?” she moves angrily towards him.

 

“Hey now,” Varric raises his hands and inserts himself between them. “You know, this was meant as a gift. To  _both_ of you,” After a moment, he shrugs, “If my informants knew it would raise such a fuss, I'm sure they'd be more cautious about sharing their knowledge in future...”

 

Hawke steps back and sighs. “Very well, we'll settle this -” 

 

“Great! I knew you would. Just - not here, okay?” the dwarf insists. “It's been a long night. Hawke, why don't you walk Blondie home?”

 

They both open their mouths in protest but are interrupted. 

 

“He's had quite a few drinks,” Varric explains, then gives Anders a knowing look, “He's not thinking straight,” he snarls between gritted teeth.

 

Before my host can explain that he is not really drunk at all, it is too late. 

 

“Fine.” Hawke mumbles, “Let's go. I know a shortcut that should keep us out of trouble,”

 

* * *  


An arrow flies past Anders' head and the mage counters with a bolt of lightning, electrocuting a Carta archer. 

“You were saying something about 'trouble'?” he calls out to Hawke, who is trying to fend off two other mercenaries.

 

“If you've got time to talk, you  _could_ give me a hand!” she shouts back.

 

“Yes, Ser!” Anders snaps the heels of his boots together at attention and salutes with his staff before shooting an ice bolt at one of the thugs. 

A blade in each hand, Hawke parries her attackers' sword strikes before slashing them in the neck and arm. As one drops to his knees behind her, she swiftly kneels to finish him off with a backwards stab through the chest. She then thrusts the other blade straight through the remaining mercenary's throat. 

 

In the meantime, Anders is preoccupied with Hawke's fight and does not notice another mercenary sneaking up from behind until the thug just enters his peripheral vision. But by that time, it is almost too late to react. 

 

Suddenly, I hear the slick, wet sound of metal entering flesh behind us and Anders turns to see that Hawke has thrown a dagger right into the last thug's eye. 

 

“ _That was too close, human,”_

 

“ _No kidding,”_

 

The rogue nudges past my host to stoop down and retrieve her knife from the fallen mercenary. She wipes the blade clean on the corpse's clothing before re-sheathing it, then searches his pockets to loot whatever can be found. 

 

“I thought the expedition pretty much set you up for life,” Anders muses.

 

“Pretty much,” she shrugs and looks down, “But  _he's_ not going to need the coin anymore. While  _you_ do,” she presses a sack of money into Anders' hand.

 

“And how do  _you_ know?” he challenges.

 

She smirks. “Are you trying to tell me that the minute we got back you  _didn't_ spend every last silver of your cut on the clinic?”

 

“Wow. I really am an 'open book', aren't I?” Anders laughs, pocketing the coins.

 

“That's what we love about you,”

 

“Oh? Who's 'we'?” he waggles his eyebrows at her. I wish he wouldn't.

 

But Hawke ignores this as they walk together towards the Hightown estates. 

 

“ _I do not understand why she still insists on helping you. There must be something more she seeks to gain. With her sister gone, you are now the only healer she has left. How certain are you that she is not merely using you for our powers?”_

 

“ _No, Justice. I'm absolutely certain she's not.”_

 

“ _How can that be?”_

 

“ _Look, I just – I just know.”_

 

“ _I do not understand how you can 'just know' without tangible proof of some kind.”_

 

“ _I don't have proof, but I have...evidence.”_

 

“ _What kind of evidence?”_

 

“ _The same evidence that you've also witnessed all along: our past experiences and knowledge of Hawke's behaviour and character. You know that it isn't consistent with someone selfish or manipulative.”_

 

“ _Hmph. Yes, unless she is simply adept at deceiving you,”_

 

“ _You know as well as I do that her integrity is beyond reproach,”_

 

The mage does have a valid point. I really dislike when that happens. 

 

“So,” Hawke eventually says, “Finally care to explain what you were doing?”

 

“Well, I was trying to take out the ranged attackers first, then analyze your fighting style for openings, but got a little distracted by your lovely - ”

 

“You know what I mean,” she stops just in front of the her estate, “Back at Varric's.” Her hand is on her hip again. 

 

“ _There is no avoiding it now, Anders.”  
_

“ _Oh? Just you watch.”  
_

“Where are we going, Hawke?” Anders quickly asks. “This 'shortcut' of yours doesn't seem very short. Or are you planning on taking me home, instead?”

 

Hawke shakes her head. “Ugh, sometimes I swear you can be as slippery as that dwarf. Just come on; it'll make sense soon enough,” she walks towards the door. “But don't think for a minute I've forgotten where this conversation left off.” 

 

“ _See?”_

 

“ _I see nothing, human, but the delay of the inevitable,”_

 

Before following, Anders glances up at the house. For a second, he thinks he spies the figure of a woman looking down at him from a window, her arms folded against a dark silhouette. When he blinks, she is gone. 

 

_* * *_

 

“Whoa. Nice place,” Anders murmurs, admiring the decor of the Hawke estate. With high, vaulted ceilings from which hang wrought iron chandeliers, the home is much larger than he imagined it to be. Flickering lanterns reveal plush red carpet running the length of the main hall, edged in embroidered gold thread. Fine, dark wood tables and chairs line the walls. So this is where her share from the Deep Roads went to.

 

“Welcome to my not-so-humble abode,” the lady of the house smirks. She leads us through the hall, past shields bearing a blood red knot-work crest of two entwined birds. “You'll forgive me if I postpone giving you the grand tour.” As we follow Hawke to the back of the house, we discover that it is far more spacious than it looks from the outside.

 

“I'll try my best not to be offended,”

 

“How gracious of you, Messere,” she stops just inside the simple but clean, wide kitchen to grab a small lantern before proceeding through a short hallway. “Actually, it's best that Mother conducts the tours around here – she's the one who decorated the place; takes great pride in it, in fact.”

 

Hawke opens the door onto a dark staircase leading down. She holds the lantern out and beckons us to follow.

 

“Mind if I ask how she's been doing? I mean, since Bethany-”

 

“Oh! Didn't you hear?” she turns to Anders suddenly as we reach the foot of the stairs. “We just got a letter. She's cured of the taint!”

 

“That's wonderful news!” Anders impulsively reaches out to touch Hawke lightly on the shoulder. “I can't imagine your relief,” He withdraws his hand, awkward, as though he doesn't quite know what to do with it afterwards. He puts it in his pocket.

 

“Yes,” But the smile on her face does not reach her eyes. My host notices right away.

 

“What's wrong? She's still okay, right?”

 

Hawke turns, continuing to lead us through a dim cellar filled with crates and large barrels. “She's fine. She's an honest-to-goodness Grey Warden now. She's even under the direct supervision of your old friend, Stroud.”

 

“I've a feeling there's a 'but' in there somewhere,”

 

“And this is why I rarely win at cards,” she sighs and pauses to lean back against one of the wooden support beams. “All right. You were a Warden once - tell me, is there some kind of rule that limits the writing of letters to just one family member?”

“Not at all,”

 

Hawke's mouth flattens into a taut line. “That's...what I thought.” We resume making our way through the rooms of the cellar and stop briefly at the entrance of winding passage. “Okay, you're almost home,”

 

Anders wants to ask her more about her sister, but he is afraid that his interest might be misunderstood. Human beings are definitely odd creatures. Simply knowing what to say is not enough. Deciding whether or not to even say it and then how, are all of monumental difficulty and significance to them. That Anders chooses to say nothing at all makes perfect sense. 

 

After a few minutes' walk, the passage narrows, so much so that we can just barely walk single file. Anders feels a bead of sweat form on his brow and his breathing tightens slightly. He hopes we will soon find ourselves in a wider space. 

 

Within just a few steps, he relaxes when Hawke declares, “This is it,” as we reach a locked wooden door. She sets the lantern down and pulls something out of her pocket. “Darktown is just beyond this door. Once through it, in fact, you'll find yourself in a corridor right outside your clinic.” She raises her hand to reveal a rusty key with which she unlocks the door. 

 

“Really? That's great,” Anders replies. Eager to get out of the tight passage and into open space, he tries to quickly squeeze past Hawke to get to the door. This time, however, she is faster than he is. She steps in front of him and blocks the way.

 

“Nuh-uh,” she shakes her head. 

 

“Hawke,” he says, “What in The Void are you doing?”

 

“Funny you should say that,” She stretches her arm out and leans against the wall as an added barrier. “What goes around, comes around, friend,” 

 

“This isn't funny at all. I'd like to go home now,” Anders tries to duck under her arm and angle around her but succeeds only in wedging himself tightly between the wall and her chest. Personally, I find the situation terribly amusing. 

 

“Not before you hand over that slip of paper and tell me why you've been trying to keep it from me,”

 

“Paper? What paper?” he squeaks, unsure which is more nerve-wracking: being squeezed into a narrow space or being squeezed into a narrow space...with _her_.

 

They are so close now that he can feel her chest heave up and down in time with her heavy sigh. He is praying that she can't feel his heart racing within his own, and thanks the Maker for the layers of armour, coat and padding between them. Hawke's brings her other hand up to press against the wall, arms on either side of him now. He is trapped, with half of him loathing and half of him loving his captivity. Did I say that humans are strange?

 

“Don't play games with me, mage,” she leans even closer, her gaze piercing with intent. Anders gulps. He can feel her leg brush up against his. It draws a great deal of willpower not to let his imagination take the nuance of her words and run blissfully away with them.

 

“ _It might be wise, Anders, to focus on the more important issue at hand,”_   


“ _I know, I know. I'm just not sure how to say it without sounding-”_

 

“ _Foolish?”_

 

“ _Um, I was thinking 'overprotective'. 'Foolish' goes without saying.”_

 

“Anders?” Hawke is growing impatient. 

 

“I...” Anders is having difficulty meeting her gaze. 

 

“Is this about what happened in the Deep Roads?”

 

“What?” he looks at her in confusion. “No! I guess I just...I mean, with your new life and all, I-”

 

She snaps her fingers, convinced that she knows the reason. “I know! You think I've gone soft, don't you?” She shakes her head, annoyed. “Because if you think I can't handle a few Templars...” 

 

“No, no – I...it's nothing like that. Absolutely not! I know you're perfectly capable.”

 

“Then what in blazes is it, man?” 

 

He can feel the heat of her breath upon his face. Anger has flushed her cheeks with a rosy glow in the flickering light of the lantern. The last of the ale he drank dances within his head to a soft and lulling rhythm that allows him to be mesmerized by the fire in her eyes, by her lips, full and pink and moist. If he just leaned forward a few inches, they could be his. So close. Just a little bit closer and... 

 

“Look,” she says, breaking him from his reverie. She puts her hand on his shoulder, “How long have we known each other? You know I trust you with my life, Anders. I really hope you can start trusting me, too.”

 

“Huh? Of course I trust you. After all we've been through, how could I not?” he replies, slightly offended, but trying not to let it show.

 

Hawke stays silent, but the question in her eyes still punctuates her expression.

 

“All right,” Anders bites his lip, “I guess I just figured that now that you're in Hightown, you'd...you know, settle in and-”

 

“Stop getting my hands dirty?” she raises her eyebrows.

 

“Well, yeah. I mean, it's not like you really need to take on jobs anymore, right? Especially the dangerous ones.”

 

She scoffs, “The next thing you'll be telling me is that you assumed I'd break off all my unsavoury acquaintances with the lot of you and take up embroidery and hosting social dances instead,”

 

“I just thought you'd be looking forward to a normal life,” he insists.

 

“And the last time you checked, was I a _normal_ woman?” Hawke smirks. “My sharpened tool of choice is not the needle, but the sword. I don't give balls, I break them.”

 

“But maybe you deserve to...retire. You've already done more than enough. You've risked your life for mages, for slaves, for -”

 

“Yes, and you know as well as I do that no risk is too great to help people who equally deserve not to suffer. I'll stop fighting when you stop fighting,”

 

“You know I won't stop until it's over. And it'll be over when mages are finally free,”

 

“Right. Justice can't retire, so neither can I,”

 

“But why? Bethany is safe from the Circle now. You don't need to-”

 

“I need to because it needs to be done and someone needs to do it. You know that,”

 

“What I do know is that you are - without a doubt - the most stubborn, incorrigible woman I have ever met,” he growls.

 

She grins. “And the sooner you learn to accept it, the better we'll get along, Anders.”

 

“ _Give up. Let her help. She is the strongest ally you have. This is a pointless argument that you cannot win,”_

 

“ _I know, but - ”_

 

“ _...unless you wish to tell her the real reason that you - ”_

 

“ _Justice. Shut. Up.”_

 

“Sorry, mage.” Hawke shrugs. “You can take the girl out of Lowtown, but you can't take the Lowtown out of the girl,” she slides out of the way to open the door, finally allowing my host to pass.

 

As Anders crosses to the door, it's clear that Hawke has left just barely enough room to do so – so little, in fact, that he still has no choice but to brush up against her to shimmy by. When she smirks at this, he's grateful for the darkness concealing the visible heat that has flown into his face, right through to the tips of his ears.

 

Once he is out and about to walk down the corridor towards the clinic, she peeks around the corner. “Oh, and don't forget to take good care of Varric's contact,” she winks.

 

Anders instinctively reaches into his coat to seek out the scrap of paper. Hawke blows him a kiss and playfully waves a folded slip at him just as he realizes that his pocket is now empty. But by then, she has already locked the door behind her.


	13. Under Pressure

 

**Anders**

 

“ _And what, precisely, do you find so funny, spirit?”_

 

“ _You, of course. That Marian Hawke is quite the clever rogue,”_

 

“ _Well, ha ha. Enjoy it while you can.”_

 

I had no idea that Justice was even capable of laughter. Whatever the case, he promptly stops as soon as he realizes that my highly...arousing close encounter with Hawke provokes the need to run to the solitude of my cot and practically tug myself raw. I swear, that damned woman must really enjoy making me squirm. It's sadistic, is what it is.

 

“ _Regardless, Anders, you must not give in,”_

 

“ _...'because there's too much at stake and it's a waste of time', blah blah blah.”_

 

“ _Because you have a higher calling to pursue and cannot be distracted by your baser instincts,”_

 

“ _You know, Justice, these so called 'baser instincts' are actually a natural part of being human.”_

 

“ _Indeed, they serve their purpose. But be that as it may, it is one that you are no longer able to fulfil since you transcended being merely human. That was the sacrifice you made in order to become...more than you were. There is now a greater purpose to fulfil: the reason for that sacrifice.”_

 

He's right, of course. I just hate to admit it. But I don't think I could stand the thought of not being near Hawke, while Justice can't stand the thought of not being involved in the cause. During the next few days spent in the clinic, we're positively itching. Thankfully, she doesn't keep either of us waiting long for more information about Varric's contact and the mage escape route.

  
“She goes by the name of 'Selby',” Hawke says.

 

She's invited us over for breakfast at her estate to share the news - 'us' being me and Merrill. As Hawke's remaining apostate friends, we also happen to be the only ones eager to help out. So we're being rewarded in advance with platefuls of fluffy pancakes, eggs, fried potatoes and smoked sausage (homemade, I understand, from an old recipe of Bodahn's mother's – Maker bless her thick and hairy little soul). It's the most mouthwateringly delicious meal I've had in a very long time.

 

Merrill sits beside me, happily sipping from a cup of freshly-squeezed orange juice. (I'm pretty sure the oranges must have been imported from Rivain or something. Where the heck do you get oranges around here?) Which now makes our enjoyment of the meal one of the few things she and I have in common.

 

It seems that Mistress Selby has a bit of a grudge against the Circle – something about her sister being a mage made tranquil. Terrible story. But it sounds like she and Hawke hit it off right away. Selby's taken it upon herself to organize a bit of vigilantism on behalf of the Kirkwall mages. Stuff mostly involving the framing of corrupt Templars and such. Just the sort of thing that's right up my alley.

 

“ _Our 'alley', you mean,” Justice reminds me._ Lately, he's been a lot more sensitive about his identity – he'll often pipe up randomly just to assert that he's there. Maybe he's annoyed at being ignored so much? I'm not sure. It's been getting tougher to keep track of whose thoughts are whose sometimes.

 

“ _Right. How could I possibly forget you? You're in my bloody head, 24-7, for crying out loud,”_

 

“ _And how do you know, Anders, that you're not actually in mine?”_

 

“ _What the heck is that supposed to mean?”_

 

“ _Cranky today, are we?”_

 

I admit, I'm a little on edge. And not just about this whole 'mage underground' thing. The fact is, Hawke has now been made even more adorable by sitting across from me in her dressing gown, hair still sleep- dishevelled while talking with a mouth half-full of food.

After she tells us about Selby's sister, I take a bite of meat before starting on a bit of a mini-rant and happen to gesture with my fork for emphasis. Hawke gets that funny quirk in the corner of her mouth and snickers, “You shouldn't wave your sausage about, Anders, unless you're willing to use it,”

Merrill makes a noise like her drink went down the wrong way and suddenly snorts out a plume of orange juice...which sprays all over me. As she and Hawke laugh, I wipe my face with a napkin. Yuck.

 

“I-I'm so sorry, Anders,” a red-faced Merrill gasps in between spurts of laughter. “I couldn't help picturing you casting spells...with a giant sausage instead of a staff,” 

 

Hawke deepens her voice to mock mine. “Destructive forces of pork fat coming right up!” she gruffly declares, making Merrill giggle even more.

 

“Oh, come on,” Hawke gently kicks me under the table, “You know if Varric or Isabela were here, it would've been much worse.” 

 

She's got a point there. Still, I decide to take my frustration out on my meal and promptly pile on seconds, then thirds.

 

As we're greedily stuffing our faces, in strides an older woman dressed in a fine purple gown. Beneath the grey hair and careworn creases upon her face lies the same inexplicable look I've seen in both the Hawke sisters. Definitely the mother. Best to turn on the charm.

 

Remembering my manners, I briefly stand to bow to the lady. “Good morning,”

 

Merrill sees me do this and bolts upright, but nervously hovers there like a convulsive hummingbird.

 

“Good morning,” she echoes, stammering. 

 

“Good morning. Marian dear, would you please chew with your mouth closed?”

 

“Yeth, Muthhrr,” Hawke replies, mouth defiantly open.

 

“Daughter, I don't believe your friends and I have been properly introduced,” she tries not to stare at my coat and Merrill's ragged sleeves with overt disdain. 

 

“Merrill, Anders - my mother, Leandra,”

 

“Pleased to meet you,” says Merrill, attempting a curtsey.

 

“Mistress Hawke,” I bend down and bring the woman's hand to my lips. She politely smiles in response, but as she pries her hand from mine, I realize that my fingers are still somewhat sticky with juice residue. Smooth one, Anders.

 

“You're both...mages, I presume?” Leandra eyes us warily, along with our staves, which lean against the table next to us.

 

“Anders and Merrill helped me in the Deep Roads,” Hawke says. She seems to enjoy seeing her mother's slight discomfort. “Merrill is also a good friend of Bethany's. And Anders is the one who saved Bethany from the taint,”

“Is that true? Oh, thank-you!” her mother clasps my sticky hands (evidently now less repulsive) in hers and bows deeply. Then she gives her daughter a look that could peel the bark off trees. “Marian, why haven't you told me before?”

 

“You never asked, Mother.”

Leandra turns back to me. “Truly, Messere, our family is in your debt,”

 

“Please don't say that,” I reply, feeling a little embarrassed for some reason. “Really, I did no more than anyone else would have in my position,”

 

“Anders is being overly modest,” Hawke leans away from the table, done with her meal. “But if it weren't for him, we would never have thought to seek out the Grey Wardens,”

“And don't forget: even if we did, we would never have found them in time,” Merrill adds.

 

“Right.”

 

Leandra's eyebrows shoot up in curiosity.

 

“He's a Grey Warden,” explains Hawke. The eyebrows come up another notch.

 

“ _Former_ Grey Warden,” I am quick to clarify, narrowly preventing her mother's eyebrows from leaping off her head entirely.

 

“Anders is also a healer, Mother,” 

 

“Oh?” 

 

“It's nothing, really...” I mumble, trying to catch Hawke's eye with what hopefully comes across as a look pleading for her to stop. Not that I'm not flattered to hear her talk me up in front of her mother. I just hope it's not too obvious.

 

“Nothing? Don't be absurd,” Hawke scoffs, not at all picking up on my hint. “I can't even begin to count how many times this man has saved my life, Mother.” 

 

With every compliment, Leandra's eyebrows have arched higher and higher and I can feel my cheeks get hotter and hotter. So much for not being obvious.

 

“You know, he also runs a free clinic in the undercity for the Ferelden refugees, too,” Merrill declares, probably thinking she's being helpful. 

 

Hawke proudly beams at her mother. I think my head is going to explode. At this point, I'd welcome anything - even Merrill's orange juice – just to extinguish my burning face.

“I thought you looked familiar,” Leandra muses. “I could have sworn I'd seen you around somewhere... in town perhaps?” There is the barest sign of a very familiar looking quirk in the corner of her mouth. And suddenly I remember the shadow in the window and Varric's warning about my “late night visits” to the estate. Oh, crap.

 

“Perhaps,” I reply, hoping that my voice doesn't betray me. The woman gives me this look. It's so brief, so subtle that no one else seems to notice. But my instinct – or more likely my nerves – are telling me that it is unmistakably a “My daughter may think you're a nice guy but I know you've been stalking her and if you make one false move, I'll have you strung up by the short and curlies” kind of look. 

 

Maker help me. Hawke really is her mother's daughter.

 

* * *

 

Within hours, we're running through the undercity, chased by no less than six Templars. Time to earn that breakfast.

 

Mistress Selby's task: help two star-crossed lovers, Mira and Galen, escape the Circle together. The plan was perfect. Hawke, Merrill and I would sneak into the Gallows to secretly make contact with the couple and trade clothing. Hawke and I, most closely resembling the couple in height and build, would serve as decoys while Merrill leads the real Mira and Galen to safety. That part was easy. As for the rest...

 

It takes a little more strength than I bargained for to compel Justice to agree with running from the Templars. He's dead set on wanting to stay and fight. I constantly have to remind him that it's all part of our mission to save the couple. It feels like trying to swim through molasses with my mind.

 

In the meantime, Hawke seems to be a little less coordinated than usual, which is odd. Between the two of us, I doubt we'll be able to keep going for much longer. But if we let the Templars see our faces, the jig will be up.

 

I can hear our pursuers closing in, just steps behind us, armour clanking heavily.

 

“How in The Void do you mages do it?” Hawke hisses at me as we sprint around a corner.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Run in these blighted robes!”

 

After a few more quick turns past several corridors and down a dim, labyrinthine passageway, I think we've almost lost them. Hawke grabs me by the arm. Before I realize what she's doing, she leads me into a small trapdoor hidden in the ground behind some tall crates.

 

Darkness engulfs us in the tiny pit; the last sliver of light disappearing as the door closes above. I feel my heart begin to race at the thought of the walls closing in, tighter and tighter. This can't be happening. Not now.

 

“ _Great. Now how am I going to get out of this without looking like a complete coward?”_

 

“ _You cannot. Get over it, human.”_ Justice has absolutely no sympathy for such phobias. He says they're a sign of weakness.

 

But then he has second thoughts. _“Yes, we cannot stay here. We must get out. We must fight.”_

 

“Hawke,” I whisper.

 

“Shh!” she keeps perfectly still, listening for the Templars. No sound. Maybe they're still searching the other corridors.

 

But I can feel it. The thick, stodgy air. The throbbing in my head growing stronger and stronger.

 

“I have to get out of here. Now.”

She must hear the tremor in my voice or perhaps my now-laboured breathing, for I can feel her grope through the darkness to seek me out.

 

“What's wrong?” she whispers back. Just a touch of her hand and she can feel that I am curled up into a ball, legs pressed up tight against my chest.

 

“I-I can't stay here, Hawke. It's too small.”

 

“What?” she chuckles softly, “Trust me, Anders you haven't put on that much weight since-”

 

“It's not that. It's – it's...the space. I can't do it,”

 

“You're...serious, aren't you?”

 

“I'm sorry,” I gulp, “You must think me such a fool. It's just the only thing I can't stand,”

 

I feel her shake her head, “No, I honestly had no idea. Why haven't you ever told me?”

 

“Because it's sodding embarrassing, that's why. I'm a grown man, for Andraste's sake...”

 

“But you're only human. And so am I. You do know you can tell me anything, right?”

 

Anything? I ask myself. Anything...that's a first. Most people I've known either can't wait to shut me up or only suffer my presence because they want something from me. 

 

“Look,” she whispers, “I'll even tell you a secret. Something I've never told anyone else before.”

 

A shiver runs through me, ending in the tips of my ears. Somewhere, I know a door to something beautiful has been opened, and I have to look inside.  _Don't think about the space. Just focus on her voice._

 

“Bethany's angry at me. For saving her. I know it.”

 

“I'm...sorry,”

 

“She refuses to write to me. Just Mother.” There's a small tremor in her voice. I don't know what to say. 

 

“Anders,” Hawke gulps, “is it wrong that now that Bee's with the Wardens, I feel almost...relieved? It's like everything I've done my whole life has been to protect her. It's all I know. Now that she's gone...” her voice trails off. “But enough about me,” She says quickly, closing that door abruptly with regret in her voice. But now that I've seen what lies on the other side, I desperately want – no,  _need_ it open again. 

 

So far, Justice has been the only one I've ever really confided in. But then, it's not like I've had any choice in the matter. And he doesn't like the idea of me exposing my weakness. But I don't care anymore. 

 

“It was...in the Circle. They once put me in solitary confinement. As punishment for running away,” I whisper. “But it was more of a box than a cell. Just barely bigger than Varric. It was the worst nine months of my life,”

 

“ _Maker._ Nine months?” she breathes, “The bastards!”

 

“Nine months is what they told me when I got out. I'll be damned if I really know for sure. All I remember is one long day of unending darkness, and silence and -” I slowly begin to gasp for air again.

 

“Hey, it's okay,” Hawke puts her hand on my back. We can hear a harried thudding reverberate nearby, growing stronger and stronger. The Templars are almost here. 

 

“Shh,” I can feel her lean in, her breath upon my ear. “You can do this, Anders. I'm here with you. Just close your eyes and imagine you're somewhere else. Somewhere with wide, open spaces.” 

 

I hold my breath.  _Somewhere else. Wide, open spaces. Somewhere else. Wide, open spaces._

 

And then there is the sound of shuffling boots and metal above us, accompanied by muffled male voices. Hawke must be able to feel me tense up again, for her hand is on my back again and she rubs it in a gentle circle. Her other hand is on my arm, giving it a comforting squeeze.

 

I close my eyes. My muscles slowly relax when Hawke places both her hands on my shoulders and silently works her way up and down my neck and back, firmly kneading as she goes. When she pauses to linger on the knots from years of built up tension, it's all I can do not to give us away with a barely-stifled groan.

 

How long has it been since I've let another human being touch me like this? How long since I've known affection? I have only faint memories now, but they may as well have been a lifetime away. I had forgotten what it felt like.

 

“ _Don't let her do this, Anders,” comes Justice's ever so predictable warning._

 

But I am no longer in a dark little hole in the ground with a second voice in my head and Templars chasing after me. I am lying under a large, shady tree in the middle of a flowered meadow. It's a bright, sunny, summer day – just blue skies and white, fluffy clouds and not a patch of grey, blighted land to be seen for miles. The air is fresh and green and sweet and I can feel the warmth of Hawke's body close to mine as she massages my back. And somehow, I know that all's right with the world.

 

Maybe those sodding Templars have caught us. Maybe they've even killed me. Right now, I wouldn't put up much of a fight.

 

Maybe I've died and passed beyond the Veil. Right now, I couldn't care less. I've wanted freedom for so long. But maybe this is what freedom really feels like.

 

“Anders?” Hawke's voice, no longer a whisper, jolts me back to reality. She's getting up. 

 

I open my eyes to the darkness of the pit and the stench of sewage and chokedamp around us.

 

“I think the Templars are gone,” she says.

 

Damn.


	14. The F-Word

 

**Hawke**

 

“...you should have seen the look on his face! I won ten sovereigns off him that time,” Varric brags.

 

“Poor Ser Thrask,” I laugh, sipping more of The Hanged Man's barely tolerable ale. I swear, it's the best smelling thing in the place.

 

Merrill hiccups, holding a tankard almost as big as she is. “He seems like a nice person,” she chirps.

 

“...for a Templar,” Anders is quick to add.

 

Isabela groans. “Great. Here we go again,” she knocks back the last of her whiskey in one swift, practised movement.

 

“Justice,” whines Varric, “Anders is way too sober. Could you please let him have a little fun for a change?”

 

Anders is indignant. “I'm perfectly capable of having fun! That is, when I'm not busy healing people in Darktown or trying to protect persecuted mages,” he retorts. “Anyone can see exactly how much copious free time that leaves.”

 

“Whoa! No need to get your coat feathers ruffled, Blondie,”

 

“Hawke, what do you think?” Anders turns to me. “I can be fun sometimes, can't I?”

 

“Hmm. What?” I am a tad...lightheaded from the drink. Some time ago, my eyes have wandered, for I am currently distracted by the delightful space between the rough stubble of his chin and the clasp of his overcoat. I snap back to attention. Somewhat.

 

My cheeks flush with idle bravado. What the heck. I purse my lips and say it. “Oh, I can think of ways you could be more fun...”

 

His eyes meet mine. Their serious expression softens for a moment, replaced by curiosity and even a twinkle of mischief. Maker, what I wouldn't do for him look at me like that more often. To my surprise, he holds my gaze.

 

“You just never give up, do you?” he murmurs.

 

“Not until I get what I want,” I am quick to answer, meeting the challenge of his stare.

 

But the moment is gone, along with Anders' smile. “We can't always get what we want,” he says, now seeming to speak into his ale.

 

Isabela pushes away from the table. “Well,” she stands up, “I think I'll call it a night.”

 

“So soon?” asks Merrill. “I wanted to hear more stories,”

 

“I was gonna stop in at The Rose,”

 

Anders snickers upon hearing her mention the brothel. “Naturally,”

 

“I think I'll join you,” Varric says. Isabela raises an eyebrow. “On your way out, that is.”

 

“Sure...”

 

“I'll tell you a good one on the way home, Daisy.”

 

Merrill has a puzzled look on her innocent elven face. “I missed something, didn't I?”

 

“Don't you worry about it, kitten,” says Isabela, patting her on the shoulder. “You just run on ahead and we'll catch up. Varric's still got to settle our tab.”

 

Varric snorts. “You're _welcome_ , Rivaini,” He tosses a small sack of coin towards the barkeep.

 

“As always, dwarf, your generosity exceeds you,” she grins and drops him a mock curtsey.

 

“Only 'cause I'll be making damn sure _you're_ buying the next round,”

 

Merrill waves goodbye from the door before slipping wraith-like into the night.  


“Goodnight all,” I call after them and Varric nods. Anders gestures back with his mug before taking a long swig, then promptly goes back to staring down at it.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Isabela pause at the door to glance back at the two of us left alone at the table. She chuckles, her voice lowered into a husky growl. “Five silver says they end up in bed together.”

 

Varric shakes his head.

 

“Unwilling to place a losing wager?”

 

“Not just that,” he mumbles, barely audible as the tavern door shuts behind them. “I've got a bad feeling about him,”

 

Anders and I sit in silence, nursing our drinks. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking.

 

The clamour around us has died down considerably as the evening has waned. Any patrons not slumped over their tables have stumbled off to their rooms upstairs or out into the night: easy targets for the many opportunistic thugs lurking in the alleyways of Lowtown.

 

“So...” we both suddenly start, then laugh in acknowledgement. Tentative dancers coming together for the first time only to tread upon their partner's toes, we are unaccustomed to the steps and timing for this particular music.

 

“You go first,” I offer.

 

“No, you,” he insists. “Ladies first, as they say,”

 

“I doubt I'd be considered much of a lady to anyone _I_ know,” I laugh. When in doubt, deflect.

 

“No, Hawke,” he shakes his head, serious again. “You are definitely a lady, no matter how much armour you wear or how many darkspawn you slay,”

 

The tips of my ears have become hot. For once, I can think of nothing to say; no witty remark to volley back.

 

This does not escape Anders' keen sense of observation. “But now you're angry - I honestly didn't mean to offend.”

 

“Um, it's all right,” I say, “I just don't...well, no one's ever said anything even remotely like that to me before,”

 

“...and then lived to tell the tale?” he finishes, grinning. “That's hard to believe. It's plainly obvious to me that you move with exceptional grace, even when you're breaking limbs or slitting throats,”

 

I am incredulous. “How can you possibly notice such things in the heat of battle?”

 

“It can't be helped,” he says, as though he were speaking of the weather or some freak accident.

 

“Might I suggest spending more time actually healing us instead?”

 

“Ouch,” laughs the mage.

 

I fold my arms and slump back into my seat. I cannot decide whether to be deeply insulted as a warrior or completely flattered as a woman.

 

“Oh cheer up,” he says, taking another swig of ale. “It shouldn't be such a burden to be so beautiful, you know.”

 

“Now you're just mocking me.” I've been mistaken for a boy most of my life. What in the Void is he talking about?

 

Anders breathes a heavy sigh and sets his mug down. Rubbing his forehead, he groans under his breath, “Stupid mage, can't you do anything right?” He looks up at me. “Mind if we get some fresh air?”

“Suits me fine,” I shrug. “It's getting rather late anyhow.”

 

“Would you be annoyed if I walked you home?” he asks, searching through his pockets. I don't understand how he can still try to play the gentleman when he's living in the sewers and I'm in Hightown now.

 

“Not if you actually let me pay this time,” I snap back, reaching out to stop him.

 

For a moment, we touch. I feel his flesh against mine and am paralysed, as though I've been shocked by something intangible and electric. I feel it wash over me like a warm wave and simultaneously begin to regret and celebrate my impulse. I jerk my hand back and get up in embarrassment. Of course: he's a mage, you fool. It most likely _is_ magic. Why are you blushing?

 

I throw some copper pieces on the table before bolting out of the tavern without a word, trying to pretend I didn't see the look on Anders' face, just as red-faced and flustered as I.

 

“Hey!” Anders catches up with me in the alley, “You'll be halfway through town at this rate,”

 

“That's the idea.”

 

I let him grab my arm to stop me. But I just stare down at the tarnished iron spikes embedded into the ground around us like fallen branches from some giant, rusted pine tree. Good fences make good neighbours. Through the darkness, moonlight glints off places on the pointy metal where what little rust has been chipped away.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

It's a quiet night in Lowtown; empty merchant stalls line the crude stone walls overlooking dim, dusty streets. We are alone. I bite my lip.

 

“Sure,” I reply, turning to face him. “What would you have us talk about?”

 

By the soft light of the lantern hanging in a doorway above, I can see the concerned lines on Anders' face. His eyes search mine. I struggle not to be distracted by how handsome he looks right now.

 

“You know very well what,” he says. I look away.

 

Just then, a ragged man shuffles out of a side alley towards us. “'Scuse me, Messere. Spare a bit o' coin?” He wavers on his feet in front of me. I nod and toss him the silver piece in my pocket. “Thank ye kindly,” the man says, though he makes no move to leave.

 

“Do you mind?” Anders asks him after several moments, “We're in the middle of a private conversation.” But the man just stands there, staring.

 

I choose to ignore him. “All right! Let's have out with it then, if it's so important.”

 

“Good. It's high time we settled this, Hawke. We've known each other for a while now.”

 

“Yes, almost three years. And?” I ask.

 

He draws a breath. “Cards on the table: you and me.” his voice cracks slightly and he clears his throat.

 

“What of us?”

 

“You and I have been...teasing each other...quite a bit lately.”

 

I can feel my ears get hot again. I hold my tongue.

 

“I just don't want things to go too far and ruin a perfectly good friendship,” he says, gently. “There. I've said it.”

 

“Friendship,” I taste the word in my mouth like I'm trying a kind of foreign food and haven't decided yet if I much care for the flavour or texture.

 

But now I can hear more footsteps approaching. This time, three other men have emerged from the shadows. The beggar turns to the largest man, “I did as you asked, but you promised me more!”

 

“Shut up, you drunken fool!” says the man, dressed in the garb of the Coterie, backhanding the old beggar across the face and sending him staggering towards the alley. Great. The thieves guild.

 

“What now? And more importantly, why now?” Anders sighs, pulling his staff from his back.

 

The larger man, clearly the leader, turns to us. “We know you lot got way more coin than that.” he practically spits the words from under a thick, dark beard. He and his companions creep forward.

 

“Congratulations. You're smarter than you look,” I reply, turning back to Anders again. “Now where were we: what's keeping us from being more than just friends? It's Justice, isn't it?”

 

“Do you really think this is the best time, Hawke?” he gives a sideways nod to our would-be assailants.

 

“Give us everything you got,” the thug leader growls.

 

I continue to ignore him, for I'm now fed up. “And when exactly is the best time, Anders? When another three years have passed us by? When are we ever _not_ fighting for our lives?”

 

He laughs and throws his hands up in the air. “You got me there,”

 

But the natives are growing restless. The two smaller men lunge forward to restrain Anders and the leader reaches out to grab at me. “Hey, you bleedin' lovebirds...”

 

I backfist the thug squarely on the nose and follow up with a knee to the groin before the words have fully escaped his lips.

 

Anders sweeps the legs out from under the nearest mugger with his staff, sending him crashing down on his back and then deftly uses the opposite end to deliver a sharp blow to the temple of the other.

 

“We're not lovebirds!” we both shout, glaring at them and then each other.

 

One of the men is out cold and the other is crawling into a corner, moaning. I jam the heel of my boot onto the throat of the Coterie leader, who is curled up on the ground clutching his crotch in agony.

 

I turn to Anders and grab him by the collar. With a wry smile, he glances down at the man I'm stepping on.

 

“Perhaps I ought to change the subject,” he quips. But I am past joking now.

 

“Just give it to me straight, already! I can take it,”

 

“That's just the problem,” he yells back, “I know you can! You're always sticking your neck out, always giving of yourself for the sake of others. Always carrying more than your share.”

 

“I don't understand. You'd do exactly the same thing.”

 

“Do you realize how drawn to you I am?” he blurts out.

 

Somehow, every fibre of my being thinks it knows what he's going to say next. He will say the words I have been longing to hear for the last three years. But for some reason, I have no idea what to do now. All I know is that there is a war drum beating in my chest and my hands are shaking. What am I afraid of?

 

Scholars say that our bodies go through one of three instinctive reactions when under extreme stress: either we fight back, flee or freeze. For the first and only time, I freeze.

 

“I can't change the way I am,” I quickly shove the words out, wanting to hear more.

 

No, not too much more. Three words: that's all I want. Three tiny, magical words and nothing else will matter. It's the oldest, most powerful spell in the universe. They say it makes anything possible. It can move mountains, part seas, bring the mightiest warrior to his knees. Whether whispered or shouted, it has shaken the world to its core since the world began. And it's only three simple words. Please, Anders. Just say it – I don't care how.

 

But he doesn't.

 

“I know. And I don't want you to. But I can't change myself, either,”

 

My grip on Anders weakens as his voice becomes more resigned. “Believe me, I want to be with you,” he says. “But I can't give in to these feelings. Not anymore, not ever. You're the best friend I've ever had. I don't want to lose you.”

 

There is a growing urge from within to throw myself on him, but Maker only knows how I resist.

 

“You aren't going to lose me, Anders.” I promise, “It's up to you to believe it or not.”

 

“You don't understand,”

 

“Then make me understand,”

 

“It's not that simple.”

 

“How can you say that? You're a man. I'm a woman. And you, we...I...” Sod it. Even I can't do it. But even if I could, it wouldn't have made a difference.

He shakes his head. “I'll only hurt you in the end. Just thought of that pains me more than anything. Please trust me - it's better this way. I'm sorry,” He looks down at the ground. The hard, emotionless mask has etched itself into the lines upon his face once again.

 

Sorry. He says he's sorry. He sure has a funny way of showing it.

 

I can feel my heart filling then overflowing. As if in a daze, I turn and my feet begin to walk me towards home. Inside, however, I am crawling away on all fours like that pitiful Coterie bloke. So this is what it feels like to lose.

 

After just a few paces, I come across the drunken beggar crouched in a corner, shaking. His mouth is bloodied. He stares at me with wild eyes and begins to shrink away in fear. I get down on one knee to reach for him.

 

“It's all right. I won't harm you.”

 

He shakes his head and tries to shuffle back even more.

 

I pull out an extra coin pouch. “See, my...friend over there is a healer,” I gesture toward Anders, who is still standing just where I left him, staring after me. “He runs a free clinic in the undercity; if you go there to get yourself looked after, I'll give you five silver,” The beggar stretches out his hand.

 

“But,” I warn him, “only if you also promise to first sober up there for at least three days and stay away from the Coterie from now on.” He nods. I offer him my hand and help him to his feet. He wobbles there slightly but Anders rushes over to help me steady the man. “And if you're in need of honest work, just ask and he'll tell you about the mine I own,”

 

I can feel Anders' eyes upon me. He opens his mouth as though about to say something but changes his mind. I hand him the money, then turn to walk away.

 

“Goodnight, friend.”

 

“Goodnight,”


	15. Manifesto

 

**Justice**

 

Anders barrels into his clinic and slams the doors shut behind him. Thankfully alone, he tears at his hair and releases an agonizing shout of frustration. __

_“You did the right thing, mage.”_

 _“Then why does it feel like I'm being a complete arse?”_

 __ He angrily grabs the edge of a nearby table and hurls it to the side, knocking over several potions and trays of herbs , sending them crashing and clattering down. Glass bottles shatter, spill ing their contents upon the packed dirt floor.

 

“ _Doing what is necessary sometimes means sacrificing your own desires,”_

 _“Even at the expense of someone you love?”_

 _“You are demonstrating a greater love by protecting her from a greater pain. I still do not fully comprehend what you call 'love'.”_

 _“Maybe that's the problem.”_

 _“No, Anders. The problem is that you fail to understand. The spirit of Love that I know cannot wait to give. It gives of itself unconditionally, unfailingly and with the utmost of patience and care. From what I have seen of your mortal 'love', it cannot wait to receive and once its desires and expectations cease to be met, its loyalty is quick to diminish.”_

 _“And what do you know of it, Justice?”_

 _“Need I remind you that true Justice can only be fulfilled as the result of the ultimate in Love, that which is none other than the love of the Truth? Without it, the thing that you call love cannot exist.”_

 __ But trying to explain this to a human is practically impossible. I don't know if he is even capable of it. At the moment, the man seems capable of very little. 

 

He is squatting on the ground, staring at his hands. Shattered glass has gouged a jagged cut into his left palm. He watches his blood slowly dot the edge of the wound like tiny red rubies before forming a thick line that drips down the length of his hand and falls  to the ground.  


Out of the corner of his eye, Anders sees a small bottle that just a few minutes ago held lyrium, now lying spilled next to his overturned table. Without thinking, he reaches for it, clasps it in his hand and lets the blood from his wound drip into the empty bottle. A small trickle of droplets at first, followed by a light, steady stream as he balls his injured hand into a fist – his anger and frustration squeezing it tighter and tighter until the bottle is nearly filled.

 _“What do you think you are doing, mage? This better not be some kind of blood magic you are invoking,”_   


“ _You know as well as I do that it's not,”_

 

Anders sets the bottle upon his writing desk and leans upon it, a little lightheaded. He stares at his wounded palm, now completely covered in blood. Slowly, the cut in his hand shrinks smaller and smaller, the pain and torn flesh fading away, replaced by an infusion of healing mana.

“Too easy,” he mutters to himself in disgust, “It's always too damn easy for me,”

I know that he is still thinking of her, of the injury he caused that his magic cannot heal. There is only one thing that can ease her pain now, but it is the one thing that he knows he cannot allow himself to do.

His gaze drifts past the bottle of his blood to the quill lying curled upon the desk. He clears away a space to lay out a fresh sheet of parchment and sits down, quill poised in his hand.

 _“This is pointless, Anders. What will this accomplish?”_

 _“I don't know and I don't care. I need to do it, if only just for me,”  
_   
He scrawls a quick date upon the top of the page and begins to write:

 _Dear Hawke,_

 

No, that's not right. He scratches out the name and tries again.

 _Dear Marian,_

 _I never wanted to hurt you. Your friendship is truly the best thing that's ever happened to me, and yet this is how I repay you. I'm a pathetic fool. Even worse, I'm a pathetic fool who's doing this because he honestly believes it's wise._

 _I know you'd never believe it, but  
_   
Anders pauses for a moment, hand trembling above the page before biting down hard on his lip and forcing himself to finish.

 _I really do love you._

 __ He lets out a long sigh and continues.

 _You deserve so much, Marian. Far more than I can ever give you. You have no idea how ecstatic it makes me sometimes - just to see you smile, to hear your laugh. And I want more than anything to see you happy._

 _I want to protect you, even if it means protecting you from myself._

 _Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking: as if YOU need protecting. That there's no way on this side of the Veil you'll ever let a chivalrous idiot like me get between you and a good fight. I know you can take care of yourself just fine_ _;_ _t_ _hat's not what I'm talking about._

 

 _We're on the verge of something big, Marian. Something no one's ever faced before. I can feel it in my bones, as sure as a spirit inhabits my soul. And it fills me with a dread that cannot be ignored. The dwarf and the elf think I'm crazy, but they're dead wrong._

 _My greatest fear is that when that day comes – whatever happens – terrible as it will be, the pain and suffering of it will make you just like me. Like almost everyone else in this Maker-forsaken world of ours: angry and jaded._

 _I've thought about you a lot over the years we've known each other, Marian. And I'm now convinced I know what makes you who you are, what causes that spark of light within you, what drives you so relentlessly to fight for others. It's hope. The idea – no, the conviction - that there's something worth saving after all: whether we're human, dwarf, elf, Qunari, Dalish, mage or Templar. The last thing I ever want for you is to give up. Maker curse the man who takes hope away from you.  
_

 _So you know what I've decided? If I can't ever properly express_

 

He stops, struggling to contain the feelings threatening to overwhelm him as he writes. His vision blurs and he is not fast enough to wipe away the tears that have slipped down his cheek. They fall upon the page, spreading into slow, wet circles on the parchment and he curses to himself before regaining his composure.

 

 _how much I love you physically or even in words, I'll show you in another way instead. I'll fight tooth and nail to change the bloody world if I have to. I know – it sounds insane. But I promise, I'll make things right. Whatever it takes, I'll do it. I swear to you, Justice and I will. Even if it costs me my life. It's the only way we'll ever know peace._

 _So consider my life a manifesto, and my manifesto a love letter - all to you, Marian, and to the dreams of freedom we've risked everything for._

 _  
Well, I'm sure the last thing you want right now is to hear another word from me, so I've decided that you're never going to receive this letter. I just needed to get this out. It's gratifying to know that some_ _one, something_ _(even just a simple piece of parchment like this) knows what's in my heart._

 __ Anders quickly signs the letter, trying to cover the stains his teardrops made. For a moment, he stares at the parchment in his hands, seriously contemplating crumpling it up and throwing it into the fire. But that would take too much effort right now. And he's tired. Oh, so tired. So he shoves it under a stack of papers and with a groan, drops his weary head upon folded arms. 

 

In no time at all, he falls asleep hunched over his desk while the hazy, intoxicating journey into the Fade overcomes his senses. Once there, the feeling of loss and the wet, dripping sensation down his cheeks become a memory.

 

Why do I suddenly feel...sorry for him?

 

But then come the thoughts that only surface whilst he is sleeping. The envy. The wish that I were there in the Fade in his place. Home. I am beginning to forget what home was like.

I do not belong here. In this realm where everything is inconsistent and nonsensical. Immortality teaches you so much. So much more than these mortals could ever imagine. There is plenty of time in eternity to learn. 

 

But here, life is brutish and short. People are cruel and selfish. Willing instruments of their own suffering, they allow injustice to reign. And the most infuriating part is that I cannot do a thing to prevent it. Even when it goes against the very essence of who I am.

I dare not admit it, but I think I am lonely. I entertain a strange notion that I had a kind of family once. Not the kind the mortals have, but...similar in feeling. It is absurd, I know. Perhaps it is merely some childhood memory of Anders' that I've somehow appropriated as my own. Still, the idea clings to me like smoke. Yes, like smoke. And where there is smoke, the humans say, there is fire.

 

No, my host is my only companion now. The mage is the only one who even remotely understands - very little, yes, but it is better than nothing. Even so, I can tell that it will not be long now. Not long before he betrays me. I suppose he cannot help himself. He is only human, after all. But what will I do then?

 

I am trapped here. Trapped in a cage of another's body. I miss my old body. There were few limits to where it could go, what it could do, what shape it could take.

 

In the meantime, I recite the only words that console me. They are Anders' words, borne of my spirit, filtered and compiled through his mind. From there they have been painstakingly written, revised and copied by his hand again and again:

 _A Treatise on the Treatment of Mages_

 

 _In the name of Justice, I beseech you – to preserve Peace within our realm, consider the following to be self-evident. It is borne of the natural law that the Maker has established, writ upon the heart of every living soul that bears conscience:_

 

 _1\. The Maker created all people as equals.  
1.1 – _ _All people have equal and inherent value granted to them by their Maker._ _  
1.11 – No person or group of people has the right to treat another living person as property._

 _1.2 - In His wisdom, the Maker gifted each person with talents, skills and abilities meant to serve the greater good._

 _1.21 - Magic is one such ability: as a creation of the Maker, it also has purpose._

 _  
2\. All people are born into a natural state of freedom.  
2.1 - Like all people in Thedas, mages are born free with the same inalienable, Maker-given rights as any other.  
2.11 – These rights include freedom and autonomy:  
of speech, of choice, of non-violent assembly, of association, to obtain the basic needs for survival, to obtain education, to travel, to live in peace, and to pursue happiness. _

_2.2 - No person or group of people has the authority to impinge upon these Maker-given rights without just cause._

 _2.21 – The only just cause for restricting a person's rights is in the case of a governing or law-enforcing body that has proven that person has violated the rights of another.  
_

 _3\. The Maker created all people with the freedom to choose good or evil._

 _3.1 - None are born predestined to serve good or evil; it is wholly a matter of autonomous choice.  
3.2 – Magic is a tool created, as the prophetess Andraste said, “to serve man, and never to rule over him.”_

 _3.3 - The prophetess was not condoning the unconditional submission of the wielder of magic_ _to a governing body_ _, but rather the submission of magic to the wielder._

 _3.31 - As a tool, magic may be used for good or ill depending upon the will of_ _the user._

_3.32 - In this way, magic offers the power to either injure or to heal, to create or to destroy._

 _3.321 - The wielder - not the knife, for example - is responsible for choosing to use it either to kill or prepare food._

 _3.33 – Therefore, a mage should be held responsible if and only if it has been proven that they have wilfully engaged in forbidden magics and have used their power inappropriately.  
3.331 – Inappropriate uses of the gift of magic include:  
\- Any purposeful use of blood magic or other magic that makes the user susceptible to demonic possession._

 _\- The use of any form of magic meant to harm another person, unless it is an act of self defense. If the latter, the user of magic is to do no more harm than absolutely necessary to ensure their own safety/the safety of those they protect.  
\- The use of any form of magic for the express purpose of harming a non- sentient, living creature unless it is for the purpose of procuring sustenance or if it is an act of self defense. If for sustenance, the user of magic is to hunt no more than is absolutely necessary to survive. If in self defense, the user of magic is to do no more harm than absolutely necessary to ensure their own safety/the safety of those they protect. _

 

 _4\. When a person's rights and freedoms are unjustly taken away they are, by nature, willing to use any means necessary to regain them._

 _4.1 – If oppressed, mages will instinctively turn to the most powerful magics they know in self defense and in order to maintain their freedom.  
4.12 – Peace can thus be maintained by allowing mages the same fundamental choices and freedoms automatically granted to any other person.  
4.2 – Inherent in this should be the same just assumption applied to all citizens: that in the case of unlawful behaviour or the use of forbidden magic, a mage should be considered innocent until proven guilty. _

  
I still disagree with the mage on his dogged belief in this “Maker” of his, having never met one in the Fade myself. Yet I cannot find fault in his logic or even the grave intent with which he writes with such passion. It is...a start, at the very least.

 

It has taken over three years to get him to this point, and we are still far from achieving our goal. I wonder what it will take to force his hand. How many more years yet to go.

But now Anders is dreaming of her again. Of Marian Hawke. They are walking together in the Fade, laughing hand in hand. He murmurs aloud in his sleep, a small crook of a smile twitching in the corner of his mouth. I can sense the calm, the peace that washes over him. Foolish man. Even his dreams betray him. Such wishes are a luxury, a complacency that cannot be suffered to persist.

But then my thoughts are disrupted by a flash of memory. A vague feeling, an instinct, from a time gone by. Another spirit from the Fade alongside me, almost entwined with me. She is gentle, yielding. I think again of...family. No – it must be my imagination. I am allowing myself to be influenced by this mortal. This shall not be tolerated.

I need to act. I must. I just need time to consider. Time to plan. But, come to think of it, I have all the time in the world. Unfortunately, Anders does not.

 


	16. The Hunter and the Healer

 

**Hawke**

I bang my fist on one of the locked clinic doors. The dry wood cracks easily beneath my hand and disturbs the dust and sand lodged within, seeping into the air in light tufts.

 

“Anders? I know you're in there.” I pound on the door some more, noticing that around the rusted metal lock, new fissures are growing in the rotting frame in tandem with my impatience.

 

I try to pick the lock, but it's beyond my skill to open. “Anders!” I yell louder.

 

“Go away! I want to be left alone!” I finally hear the mage say, his voice muffled yet loud enough to hear the commanding tenor of Justice speaking for him.

 

“To the Void with _this_ ,” I mutter to myself, taking a few paces back to bend my knees and brace my arm and shoulder for the impact. I may be no “woman-shaped battering ram”, as Isabela calls Aveline, but I do know how to exploit weakness.

 

“Absolutely...” I say, running at the door to fling my side into it. A sudden pain is dulled by the sense of accomplishment I feel when the decrepit wooden plank splinters and partially gives way. Unfortunately, I think my arm has given way as well. Maker, that sodding hurt! But I am too annoyed and too close to give up now.

 

“...not!” I give the lock a sharp kick with my heel. Success! I shove aside the random shards and splinters of broken wood.

 

“Are you completely mad?!” Anders is staring, mouth agape, as I scramble through what is left of his door. An incredulous look quickly replaces the last traces of blue light in his eyes.

 

“This _is_ a clinic, right?” I snap, striding towards him. “Then don't keep your patients waiting,” I sit down on the cot next to him and begin to unbuckle my left gauntlet. “I think I've just dislocated my shoulder.”

 

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but bends over to help me remove my leather chestpiece anyway. “What part of 'I want to be left alone' do you not understand?” He lifts the armour over my head in a less than gentle manner.

 

“Ow!” I yelp. I give him a hard, knowing look. “You can't always get what you want,” I reply, to which he averts his eyes from mine and sits beside me to examine my arm in silence.

 

Without a word of warning, he abruptly yanks my injured arm downwards.

 

“Aargh!” My joint feels as though it's being levered back into place by a searing hot poker. But he raises his hand, now emanating a light blue glow from his fingertips, and begins to massage my shoulder. I feel the pain slowly dissipate beneath his healing touch.

 

“You saw what happened, Hawke,” he finally says, standing, “back in the Gallows dungeon.”

 

I open my mouth to speak but he interrupts me.

 

“That girl – I almost killed her,”

 

I rise and put my hand on his arm, but he shoves it away.

 

“But you _didn't_ , Anders,” I reassure him, “she's safe now. And Ser Alrik is dead.”

 

“No thanks to me,” he begins to pace the room. “I thought I could control it. Vengeance. What a fool I've been,” he says with venom in each word and plops himself down on a nearby stool to rest his head in his hands, grasping at his hair. “If you weren't there to stop me, who knows what I would have done. I'm a monster - ”

 

“ You are _not_ ! Now stop this,” I kneel in front of him, taking his hands into mine. They are cold and clench at my touch. His head drops down as though losing their only support. I wonder if it's him or Justice trembling, for I cannot tell if it's in fear or in hatred. Perhaps it is both. 

 

 _Steady, Hawke. Do you really know what you're doing? The man is unstable. He couldn't tell the difference between friend and foe back there. He's volatile. A loose cannon. What can you possibly do to help him? He can barely help himself._

 

I'm having trouble keeping my emotions in check. This is not good. Reason tells me that I should send him away – put as much distance between us as I can. But there's a small, clear voice from deep within that cannot be ignored. It aches to close that distance. It makes me want to hold him tight and somehow, magically, absorb the weight of his torment the way he always does with the pain of others.

 

It tells me that I can help him become stronger. I know he can do it. He just needs someone to lean on for a while. And I desperately want that someone to be me.

 

“ Take a deep breath,” I choose to say. “Now tell me what you see,” 

 

He glares at the dirt floor. 

 

“Humour me. Just t ell me what you see,” I whisper. 

 

“ I see one no longer - no longer human.” 

 

“ No, look around you - at where you are. What do you actually see?” 

 

He sighs and his shoulders droop, defeated. “I see the ground.” 

“Yes? Tell me about the ground.”

 

He raises a skeptical eye at me. “Seriously?” 

“Just do it, Anders. Trust me,” I laugh.

“It's...dusty, packed dirt caked with dried mud.”

 

“ Go on,” I squeeze his hands. “What else do you see?” 

 

“ I see the tops of my boots. They're black and scuffed.” 

 

“ Keep going. You're doing fine.” 

 

“ I see my hands,” he closes his eyes, “covered in innocent blood." 

 

"That is a rotting lie and you know it." I take one of his hands and pry the fingers out of it's fist. "You're in the here and now. Not the past. Not the future. Open your eyes and try again." 

 

His hand relaxes slightly, so I start caressing it. His palm is calloused from years of battle and hard labour, yet feels surprisingly gentle at the same time. A healer's hands. 

 

He takes another deep breath and as he exhales, I can feel more tension leave his body. 

 

"My hands - my hand is in yours. They feel strong. And sure. And...warm." He looks at me. The faint, icy blue glow in his eyes is gone. They have returned to the clear, tawny brown that I adore. He's back. "You're here. Smiling at me. The fire is flickering. It's casting light upon your face. You look...like a beautiful spirit," he breathed. 

 

He drops to his knees and buries his face into my neck, wrapping his broad shoulders around me. My whole body instantly flushes hot. A stray feather from his pauldrons has curled itself into my breast. It tickles, but I cannot move. 

 

Against my cheek, his hair smells of burnt wood and straw mixed with something warm and indescribable – something herbal. Elfroot, maybe? I breathe it in and a small shiver runs down my spine right into my toes, leaving a tingly feeling behind. _Careful, Hawke. This is dangerous. The man is vulnerable right now. Be strong. Slow down and back away._ My mind is warning me, but my heart disagrees. 

 

“Anders,” I breathe, turning slightly to look him in the eye. “there's nothing I won't do to keep you fighting by my side. You. Not Justice or Vengeance,  _you_ . He can't be the one in control and you know it. What I really need from you now is to keep resisting him,”

 

“I know,” he whispers back, avoiding my gaze and “Believe me, I'm trying,”

 

“I need you to try harder. To fight him. I  _know_ you can,” I give his shoulders a light shake. “Let me help you. You don't have to go through this alone,”

 

He loosens his embrace , then and seems to stare right past me. After a moment he murmurs, “I'll try,” 

 

“Oh! I almost forgot,” I reach into my lapel pocket. “You need to see this,” I say, handing him the letter I found on Ser Alrik's dead body, declaring that his so-called “Tranquil Solution” perished right along with the despicable Templar himself.

 

Anders reads the letter and is overjoyed. “They rejected his scheme,” he throws his arms around me again, “Thank the Maker!” 

 

“See? All is not lost,” I give him a slight squeeze before trying to pull away again. The mage is ecstatic now, and will not let go of my shoulders.  _You're too close_ . But I stay right where I am.

 

“Yes,” he smiles down at me, “the Knight-Commander may yet listen to reason. You've given me great hope.” Then his smile wanes slightly and he gulps. Suddenly, his gaze, those eyes the colour of honey, seem to bore a hole right through my soul with his intent. I've imagined this look before. It is a face both unexpected and familiar. The hunter in me immediately recognizes it for what it is, for I have felt it molded upon my own face countless times before. It is the look a wolf gives a rabbit just before it pounces and devours.

 

My mind is screaming at me to run. The rest of me refuses to listen. As easily as breathing, I become the willing prey. “I can give you far more than just - ” 

 

But this time, the bait is unnecessary. His mouth is upon mine and his arms are wrapped around me. The force of his body knocks me backwards into a table, my hands instinctively reaching back to steady myself and meeting rough wood. I hear paper falling to the ground and glass shattering, but the sounds are distant compared to the rapid beating of my heart and the ache that runs through me as his lips and tongue desperately search my own. 

 

For once, I cannot fight back. Nor do I want to. I have desired this for far too long and far too deeply to restrain myself now. I pull him closer and kiss him back with a violent urgency that makes him draw breath. I can feel his fingers entwined in my hair, a callused hand caressing my face. I breathe deep of his skin. There is a throbbing from the very core of my being that will not relent, and neither do I. 

 

Suddenly, he pulls away, gasping. He shakes his head. “This will be a disaster, I know it. But I can't bear to spend another moment without you. We could die tomorrow and - ”

 

I raise a finger to his lips. “I know,” I say, leaning over to kiss him softly. “What have I been trying to tell you all this time?” I murmur. With my words, the hunted will become the hunter again. “I love you, Anders. Nothing is going to change that.”

 

He smiles. Maker, it's so good to see that smile. “I might make you live to regret it,” he sighs, half-jokingly.

 

“Life's too short for regret.”


	17. A New Hello

Anders

 

“ _Life's too short for regret.”_

 

Her words play back in my mind as I make my way across the bridge to Hightown. The moon is full and high in the dark sky, and I stop halfway to stare out at the river below. A light breeze ripples the surface of the water, blurring it's reflection.

 

“ _You are making a grave mistake, mage,” Justice says, “You are letting your feelings for this woman compromise you; compromise our purpose.”_

 

Our purpose. It takes every ounce of will I can muster to stuff his thoughts down into the farthest recesses of my mind until I can almost feel like the spirit is separate from me again.

 

Regrets, I have aplenty.

 

I should never have kissed her. That in and of itself was a promise. The seed of an implicit expectation. One that I don't know for sure if I can keep or live up to. How could it have gone this far? Surely Hawke's affections would have found more fertile ground than this. I'm not blind to how the others treat her, how that elf stares at her.

 

Perhaps love has fought to thrive in spite of me – in spite of us – a being willing its own survival, pushing through blighted soil between those rare times we've impulsively or accidentally fed it. And now that one kiss has given it just enough sustenance to sprout, to break the seemingly barren surface and declare to the world that something was living inside after all. It has tasted the sun and will either bask in it's rays or wither and die, but will never turn back now.

I wonder what things might have been like between us before Justice came along. I wonder if she still would have fallen in love with the man I used to be.

 

But I'm not even a man anymore. The problem is, she thinks I am. At least, she's the only one who makes me feel like I'm still remotely...human. I see the way the others look at me when they think I don't notice. The fear that hides behind their eyes. The loathing that some don't even bother trying to conceal. And they've every reason to fear and hate me.

 

I briefly consider retracing my steps home. It would be for her own good. Marian Hawke. So young. So naive. What has she ever done to understand regret, anyhow?

 

“I love you, Anders.” she said, and I do believe she meant it. That look on her face. Like she was begging for her life. It's now impressed upon my soul, a priceless treasure that no one can ever tear away. Just reliving the memory of it makes me want to hold her close and guard her with all the strength I have.

 

But am I even capable of love? Justice doesn't think so. Maybe he's right – maybe I'm just being selfish, allowing myself to want more. If I truly loved her, wouldn't I try harder to protect her? So much for vows written in my own blood. I guess the call of the blood within me is stronger. I laugh aloud. Leave it to me to make being in love sound like having the taint. I'm starting to sound like Justice.

 

Still, I did give her an out: promising instead to visit tonight and giving her the option to literally open or close the door. Maybe she'll have come to her senses and when I get there, she'll have kept it locked after all. At least this is what I tell myself when I finally approach the Hawke estate.

 

Hightown is dark and quiet as usual; the ornate buildings tower around me like silent, stone sentinels. The moonlight makes the cobblestone pavement glow white. This is the one place in the city where the streets aren't littered with filth. A lone guardsman is on patrol and his helmet bobs up and down stiffly as I pass, his armoured steps clang loudly.

 

I pause when I get to her door. My hand hovers over the handle, still deciding whether or not to dare turning it. Fearing the decision that may have been made for me; wishing now that I had not given her the choice to turn me away. And what if she has? Then maybe it's for the best: one broken heart now is better than two later on, right?

 

Oh, who am I kidding? I slowly try the handle and push. By some miracle, the latch gives way and the door opens. In relief, I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. So we're both fools, after all.

 

But now I feel like a thief in the night. I don't belong here - in a place of beauty, amidst all of this finery, where everything is kept impeccably clean. The hall is dark, but a lamp above the staircase has been kept lit. I tread softly, taking care not to wake any of the servants who have retired for the evening (or, Maker-forbid, Hawke's mother).

 

At the top of the stairs, the door is ajar, streaming light from Hawke's bedroom like a wide, flickering band into the darkened hallway. She is standing in front of the fire, waiting. I pause outside her door for a moment to admire her figure, dressed in the short robe she reserves for when she's at home. I can barely make out her family crest, embroidered upon her back. The dark red silk ends just past the curve of her hips, tapering down before revealing the edge of a slim brown kilt. There is no mistaking the feminine features that she usually hides under layers of armour and protective padding.

 

Well, I can't stand here forever. I take a deep breath and cross the threshold, quietly closing the door behind me. She turns from the mantel at the sound and greets me with a broad smile, beckoning me to join her.

 

Before I can say a word, her arms are around me and her lips are on mine.

 

“No: 'hi, how are you', 'have a good day at the clinic' or even a 'how'd it go cleaning up after the mess I made, Anders'?” I chuckle, as her unrelenting assault migrates lower. If I can make her laugh, maybe it'll be enough to prevent her from noticing how nervous I actually am. _What's the matter with you, man? You're acting like you've never done this before._

 

“I was afraid that if I gave you the chance to speak, you'd just change your mind,” she murmurs into my neck. “Plus, I thought I'd try out a new kind of 'hello', just for you,”

 

I reach down and lift her chin to look into those impossibly blue eyes, to stroke the line of her jaw. There is a part of me that still can't believe it. The woman could probably kill me with her pinky finger if she wanted. But instead, she's letting me touch her like this. And she's giving me that wonderfully mischievous grin. Just for me. “I'm here, aren't I?” I say, “And I could get used to this new 'hello',”

 

We kiss in earnest now. We have discovered a wellspring, an oasis in the middle of a desert when we were dying of thirst. I feel the need burning within me again at her touch, threatening to consume me from the inside-out.

 

Then we are tearing at each others' clothing, and I feel the chain of my coat give way under the pull of impatient fingers grasping, unbuckling, untying. I slip the folds of her robe over bare neck and shoulders, covering them instead with my lips and eliciting a small gasp from her in the process. I really need to shave more often.

We sink into the plush rug and our hands want to traverse every inch of the other's body, greedy explorers charting unknown territory. I can feel her skin, in places even smoother than the silk of her thin chemise and she lets out a moan when I gently ply at the pert nubs that have formed to press against my chest.

 

“Don't you think we're both...overdressed...for this particular occasion?” she pulls away to smirk down at the insistent bulge under my trousers.

 

“You'll get no disagreement here,” I reply, and as we rid ourselves of that second last barrier between us, a tremor of anticipation pulses through me. True, I have seen parts of this woman bare before, but only under the most practical of circumstances. The sight of those graceful bits were merely a tantalizing taste of what I could only imagine might be the whole. And imagine it, I have. Many a time.

But now she is actually lying here before me, just as she is, completely inviting. This is nothing like I thought it would be. Nothing at all like the extrapolated shadows my mind desperately conjured up in the solitude of my cot. To say that reality has outdone my imagination would be a gross understatement. I keep reminding myself that this is real.

 

She is luminous, her skin like fine porcelain in the soft light. Graceful, shapely limbs, yet strong and firm to the touch: a body created for movement. The Maker sure knew what he was doing when he created her.

 

Then something happens. Something I could never have anticipated. And somehow I know that it will never happen again.

Feeling her lying naked in my arms rouses something new in me – something long dormant, something I didn't even know was there. Is it a lost memory, or a forgotten promise? Whatever it is, it sings to me sweetly, yet scares the shit out of me at the same time. A haunting, wordless melody I've known all along, telling me she's the one.

And suddenly, I don't ever want to let her go. I'm afraid of what will happen if I do. Maybe this is all just another dream. It has to be. In a second, I'll wake up in the clinic, alone in my room, gasping for air with only her name on my lips. So I savour every sight, every sensation, as though any moment could be our last.

 

“Hello,” I whisper.

 

“Hello,” she murmurs back.


	18. The Gift

**Justice  
**

  
This is not right. I shouldn't be here. This is too intimate, too sacred to observe.

I don't know why I suddenly care. They are only mortal, after all. Beings at the mercy of the call of their flesh. I should be indifferent to what they do. Inexplicably, I am not. Not when it seems like the woman is speaking to me. And especially not when I can feel every sensation that Anders experiences. I am as much of a prisoner as they are.

But I simply cannot look away, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I wish I were literally anywhere in the Void right now but here.

The man takes his time, determined to savour every second of this in spite of the long-suffering ache that slowly consumes him. After having waited so long, even this display of self-control – however minor - surprises me.

“Anders?” Marian Hawke is cradled in my host's arms. He runs caressing hands down the length of her body, massaging around every curve. I can see through his eyes the tender way she looks up at him, the sea blue of her eyes reflecting the hint of something more. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was fear.

I have seen this woman cut down demons without hesitation. What could she possibly have to fear?

Anders brushes away a stray lock of hair from her face, curling it lightly between his fingertips and around the edge of her ear. “What's wrong, love?” he whispers.

“I...” she bites her lip, “There's something you should know,”

“I'm not going to find a lock and chains down there, am I?” he jokes, but immediately regrets it once he sees her cheeks flush beet red and she swiftly averts her gaze. The colour drains from his face.

“You're not...”

“- I've never...” Hawke blurts out at the same time, “I've never been with a man before, okay?” she mutters.

He can't believe it. After years of all that agonized flirting, baiting each other – how she knew exactly what it would take to string him along – she's actually a virgin?

I ought to admonish him, but there is no need. Anders was completely unprepared for this possibility. And now, gaping open-mouthed at her, he cannot conceal his horror.

“Look, I know what you're thinking,” she quickly says, finally breaking the silence, “but if the others found out, you know they'd never let me live it down.” She searches his eyes with hers, imploring. “Swear to me you won't -”

“Of course not,” Anders snaps, “I won't say a word. What kind of monster do you take me for anyway?” Then he realizes how he must sound. “I'm sorry. I'm just...a little surprised, that's all. A lot surprised,” he corrects, “I'm in shock, all right?”

Hawke looks down, embarrassed. She folds her arms across her chest. “So...I guess now this means you don't want to -”

“What, are you crazy?” he laughs, much to her relief. “Of course I want to. Silly woman,” Anders grins, stroking her temple. “I'd be the stupidest man in the world not to. I just can't believe there are so many idiotic men out there who passed up the chance,”

“I told you I didn't have much of a life,” She laughs sheepishly. “It always seemed like a petty indulgence. And we were never in safe enough position to settle down. There was never time to...put down roots like that. Besides, if I were with child or something, who would protect Bethany? Before it happened, I wanted to be damn sure it was with the right person. Otherwise it was far too much of a risk,” she sighs. “At least that's what I always told myself,”

“And now, you feel safe?” he asks. “You're...sure I'm the right person?” The pangs of guilt choke him like a punch in the throat. He'd had so many. Women, men. Who they were mattered not to him then. So long as they were willing. If he had an itch, he would scratch it. It had never occurred to him to do otherwise.   

Hawke looks up at the velvet canopy above them and her eyes scan the richly-decorated room. “I guess I finally do,” she muses to the air before turning to him again. “And I've never been more sure of anything in my life,” she declares, raising a hand to touch his unshaven cheek with her palm. “You, Anders, are worth any risk,”

The weight of her words sinks heavily upon him. Within his conscience, they whisper accusations. Thief. Brigand. This does not belong to you. And he is shaken by the painful reminder of a past life squandered on...what? Only himself. Amounting to nothing.

 _“You don't deserve her.”_

 _“I know.”_

This time will be different, he vows. This time, he'll do things right.

He shakes his head. “You're playing with fire,”

“I'm already burning here.” she grins back. “Do your worst.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes, it is.”

Anders bows his head to hide the moisture forming in the corners of his eyes. Softly, he resumes tracing the line of her jaw with his lips and causes her to shiver as his rough chin brushes her throat.

“Any other commands to deliver?” he murmurs, his kisses gradually increasing in speed and intensity as he works his way lower.

She moans when his teeth graze a particularly sensitive area of skin.

“Just one,” she breathes, “for that soldier down there,”

He chuckles into her belly. “It shall be done,”

\---

He is driven by the enigma of her scent. She has become an endless, changing mystery, a puzzle to be solved. Its secrets are revealed the more he breathes, the more he tastes. There is the unmistakable smell of lanolin on her fingertips from oiling her blades. Her tongue is sweet with wine. Is it mead? It must be. But more tests must be conducted to know for sure.

Once Anders is convinced that it is indeed mead, he moves on to discover the salt of her sweat upon her breasts. There is no mistaking the urgency of her desire now. The lower he ventures, the more he is compelled by the musky invitation that emanates from her, her want eagerly pressing itself against him and trembling at his touch. And he wishes to have it all.

His will becomes my will. Yet mine is slightly different. She is goading him with her body. Urging him for more. Her impatience infuriates me. After years of egging him on so mercilessly, it is simply not fair. Why must she receive satisfaction so soon? That he is so readily willing to grant hers now after delaying his own – I cannot suffer this...injustice. She must be taught a lesson.  

It has been so long since he was given his due. Too long. And they have drawn this out far enough. I feel the pressure building inside, straining like a torrent of water rising up against a weakened dam. Her pleading voice, the feeling of her fingers desperately grasping for him almost sends Anders over the edge. But he is unused to exerting the necessary strength to suppress both me and himself simultaneously. In that moment, I can feel his control over me slip.

It is just enough. I wedge myself through that small crack in the barrier of his mind and push through.

 _“Justice! Don't do this!”_ Anders' voice is but a muffled shout in the back of my mind.

A small cry escapes his – my – lips and Hawke looks down in concern.

“Anders, are you -” Her eyes grow wide in recognition, the pale blue glow of light from me cast upon her face.

“Fear not, dear lady,” I say, “I shall not harm you.”

But if she is frightened, she refuses to show it. “Fancy meeting you here,” she quips.

“Irreverent as always, Marian Hawke.” She slowly tries to back away, but I grab her wrists and press my weight down upon her to pin her to the bed. Typically, the mage could not possibly manage it on his own. But together...together we are stronger. Much stronger.

Her chin juts upwards defiantly as she looks me straight in the eye. “What are you doing here, Justice? I don't recall sending you an invitation...”  

“No, but your lover did. In a manner of speaking.”

“Anders would never -”

“Correct. But his own desire for justice is stronger than either of you think. It is by far stronger than his desire for you.”

“We'll see about that, spirit. Now leave.”

“That is impossible. Anders and I are one. It is time you learn what that means.”

“What are you-”

I don't let her finish. I press my mouth upon hers and she struggles beneath me in response.

 _“Let her go, you blighted spirit!”_   Anders tries to scream inside my subconscious.  
 _  
“Not until you both understand that I will not be trifled with.”  
_  
“What do you want from me?” Hawke wrenches her face away from mine.

“Only what Anders wants.” I slide downwards, grasping the backs of her knees. She tries to force herself up, but I press an arm across her chest, easily holding her down. And then I draw upon every old, intimate memory the mage still possesses. I will my hands and mouth to move upon her just as his have expertly done to others numerous times before.

She is moaning for me to stop, but her body says just the opposite. “Why?” she manages to gasp.  

I pause only briefly to look up at her. “Because, you irredeemable temptress, you owe him. You owe him for every time you teased, every time you taunted, every time you threw yourself upon his lap in a seductive, drunken stupor,” I resume my ministrations forcefully in time with each word and her hips rise and fall in response.

I diligently watch for the tell-tale signs that it is too much. I cannot be too careful. I must not go too far. For one, I refuse to take her maidenhead. I will have revenge for the mage, but at the same time, it would not be right to deprive him of that which is rightfully his. I am being particularly benevolent today. Strange.

Just as she nears her limit, I stop abruptly. Hawke groans loudly in frustration, glaring down at me.

“You bastard,” she mutters after the third time I let her get even closer, only to withhold release.

I think I somehow manage one of Anders' smirks. “How long until I drive you mad?” I quote her mockingly.

Inside my psyche, I hear the mage laugh. I think he is almost enjoying this.

A layer of sweat beads Hawke's brow and her chest is heaving. “How long do you intend to do this, spirit?”

“How would you prefer to atone for the three years of torment you put him through?”

“I was just about to until you interrupted,”

“Seeing as I am somehow feeling rather generous today, I will let you off easy,”

“A simple 'letting me off' would suffice.”

“Anders says: not until you scream his name,” I reply. “He wants to make you to beg,” The mage curses impotently at me. “Sorry, did I say that out loud?”

\---

It does not take long to make Hawke fulfil Anders' secret longing. Then true to my word, I relinquish control, satisfied that justice has again been served.

“Are you all right, love? Did he hurt you?” are the first words out of Anders' mouth as the last traces of my energy fade from his skin.

“You know very well he didn't,” Hawke pants, “I really should slap you,” she glares at him fiercely, though not for long. “But I'm just glad to have you back,”

“I'm sorry,” he says, stroking her cheek, “I told you: I lose all control when it comes to you,”

She sighs. “Just promise me it'll never happen again,”

“I promise.” The man really needs to stop making vows he cannot keep.

“What in the Void was that all about anyway?”

“I think you've made him a little jealous,” he smiles.

“Well, then,” she rolls over and wraps her arms around him. “Let's give him something to really be jealous about,”  

\---

I am forgotten. Their passion continues as though I'm not even there. It's like they are the only two people who matter, as though their entire world is filled by the other. It is a world with no place for me in it.

And when that inevitable moment of joining arrives, Anders is careful and patient. They move together as one, matching the rhythm of their bodies and souls to delve deeper into each other. I am suddenly immersed in an age-old ritual, carried by a mystical invocation that grows stronger and stronger until it finally sweeps us towards a precipice of overwhelming pleasure.

At its peak, I feel the uncontrollable surge of energy from within the mage mingle with mine and emanate through our body, passing from us and into Hawke. Its aura ripples over her in dancing bands of undulating blue light over her skin, to dissipate through each limb and then out her fingers and toes, out the ends of her hair.

In that moment, I can sense a presence sleeping inside her jolted awake. It spontaneously pushes back, as though something in her blood answers his mana's call. And even without thinking, I know it is a door to the Fade. There is magic within her.  

But we are too entangled now, riding a cresting wave of intensity that leaves us shuddering in its wake. Peace takes its place, its softness all-encompassing.

“How do you feel?” he asks her, face full of concern.

“Like I've finally joined the human race,” Hawke breathes.

The mage instinctively brings a glowing hand downwards, ready to heal what is torn. But Hawke only shakes her head and gently pushes it aside.

“Some things are worth the pain.”


	19. Awakenings

**Anders  
**

  
She lies with her cheek pressed upon my chest, her dark head slowly rising and falling with every breath I take. I bury my nose into her soft, tousled locks and marvel at the crisp, cleanness of her sweat. Her small body is curled warm against my side and I idly stroke the length of a smooth thigh stretched limp across mine.

Her fingers are embedded in the dampness of my scalp, gone still after lazily twining my hair just moments ago. The ties that held it back have fallen, hidden somewhere in the bed amongst the layers of blankets and pillows. Right now, I can't be bothered to find them. They can bloody well stay lost for all I care.

I can't remember the last time I felt so at peace. Or even if I ever had before. I remember lovers long gone, if you could even call them lovers. Temporary...companions, more like it. I never stayed. And neither did they. Doing so would acknowledge a greater need beyond the one just sated. But here...here, I could rest content forever. If she'd let me. If he lets me.

There's no escaping the brute fact of him. I can never admit it to Hawke, but Justice cannot be ignored or fully controlled. He proved it with that stunt he pulled tonight. It was as much of a warning as anything. Even if he claimed that he did it for me. It's clear that any time I take for myself will cost. He just hasn't named his price yet. In the meantime, I can't help the feeling that he's holding us both hostage.

I think back to earlier in the evening. I had just closed up the clinic for the night. Figured I ought to get cleaned up if I was going to pay Hawke the visit I promised. I shed my coat and shirt and filled my rusty, old wash basin to begin dousing myself in the back room. Warm water was a welcome, soothing sensation in my hair and on my face. I closed my eyes and felt the tension of the day slip off my skin with the droplets.

I raised my head from the basin and reached blindly about for the rag I use as a towel. And that was when a familiar sensation tickled the hairs on the back of my neck. Why was I not surprised?

“Hullo, Varric.” I opened my wet eyes to see the dwarf's amused face staring back at me, faded and cracked in the reflection of the dirty mirror.

“Not bad, Blondie,” He offered me my towel, which I took from him and promptly began to dry myself. “You're getting sharper. Nice to see that the 'dumb blonde' stereotype applies to you less and less these days,”

“Thanks. For the washcloth, that is. Not the back-handed compliment,”

“All part of the service, friend.”

“Well, perhaps you could add an explanation? Aside from the obvious repeat attempt at scaring me out of my wits,” I immediately regretted saying it just as the words slipped out. Thankfully, Varric missed (or more likely, ignored) the opportunity for another insult.

Instead, he laughed and leaned against the wall next to my dresser.

“A little bit of excitement today?” He gestured towards the entrance, against which I had hastily pushed a cabinet to bar the way. Now how did that blighted dwarf get in here?

“So you're here to see after the repair of my door, then?” I smirked, turning away from him to resume towelling off, then untangling my hair. If he was going to be cryptic, he didn't deserve my undivided attention. I had an engagement to keep. “Awfully kind of you. Didn't think that was the sort of thing the Dwarven Merchants Guild took an interest in, though,”

“What piques my curiosity isn't so much the condition of your door as how it got that way,”

“You forget that this is a clinic, Varric. Patients are practically dying to get in,”

The dwarf groaned loudly and shook his head. “Why not admit it's just the one, extremely...persistent “patient” we both know is responsible?” He snorted. So the truth finally came to light.

“And why don't you ever just mind your own business?” Nosy bugger. How he managed to find out, I've no clue.

“Blondie. My business is comprised primarily of two things: taking care of the people I care about and taking care of the people who'll hurt the people I care about. The question is,” he paused briefly to re-adjust Bianca's carrying strap, “which one are you?”

At this, I craned my head to look at him in surprise. “Are you...threatening me, dwarf?”

“Depends. Do I need to?”

“If you've got something to say, Varric, say it.” I straightened up and glared.

“I like you, Blondie.” He grinned. “You're not too bad a guy. However, I also like Hawke. And if you just so happen to make her happy, no problem. On the other hand -”

“I love that woman more than I love myself,” I snapped with a growl. “I would kill to keep her safe...there's nothing in the world I wouldn't -”

“All right, already!” Varric laughed. “Enough with the melodrama. No one's questioning your loyalty, mage. You, I trust.” Then he pointed up at my head. “It's that other guy I've got an issue with,”

“Well, there's not much I can do about that, is there?” I retorted. “He and I come as a matched set. End of story.”

He shook his head and made his way to the door. “The story ain't over 'til it's over, Blondie.” He sighed before muttering over his shoulder, “By the paragons, man. Just be careful, okay? All I want is for you stay on Bianca's good side. Right now, you're behind her. Just where you ought to be. Your Maker help you if you ever end up otherwise.”   

Maker help me, indeed. But right now, Justice is the last thing I want to think about. There's still the nagging feeling that maybe Justice is right. Maybe Hawke really is a mage. To believe him, however, would be to trust his suspicions – a thing I am most loathe to do. The spirit's assumptions, more often than not, border on outright paranoia.

But I still can't shake the idea. It would make sense. Magic runs strong in her bloodline. And there's no mistaking what I felt, too – just the barest hint of mana – within her. Though I have to admit, I was rather...distracted at the time. Perhaps it was merely Justice's or my own magic I felt.

No, that can't be. It was definitely magic of a different...texture. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but I know it couldn't have been mine. I call upon the Fade often enough, and get used to a kind of...I don't know. Spiritual 'smell' that comes with using my own mana. After so long, I've barely noticed it's there.

It's like the air around me at home that I'm accustomed to breathing. Like the odour of the chokedamp or rat feces in Darktown. Someone not used to being down there would probably notice right away. That, or the bloody 'damp has finally burned out my olfactory nerves.

There are only two possibilities. The first is that Hawke knows about her magic and has been keeping it secret. I don't much care for the idea that she might be withholding something this important from me. But if she is, there must be a good reason. Though I can't say I understand it.

The other possibility, of course, is that she's not even aware she's got it. Either way, what it all boils down to is: do I tell her what I know?

Hawke has been drifting in and out of sleep for the past few minutes now. It makes me smile, seeing her eyelids flutter then slowly come open again, heavy-lidded, only to resettle contentedly after she buries herself deeper into the crook of my arm. It's funny, but I'm more convinced now that it is I, not the woman beside me, who is finally coming awake.

“Mmm,” she groggily squinted up at me, “can't sleep?”

“No need,” I reply, “Besides, I don't usually sleep much,”

“Really?” her fingers skim over my belly as her eyes pry themselves wider with alertness.

“Bad dreams, mostly. It's more fun to watch you doze off,”

“What kind of bad dreams?”

“Just your run-of-the-mill, Warden standard-issue: darkspawn and the like. The stuff they conveniently leave out of their recruitment advertisements,” I crack, trying to turn it into a joke. I guess she's bound to learn more about the nightmares soon enough. But for now, the less we talk about it, the better.

“I see,” She replies quietly. I've known her long enough now that I can tell she's not buying it. Still, she leaves well enough alone. Smart girl.

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

She laughs. “So you've found that out, have you? I must be exhausted. That doesn't usually happen unless I'm extremely tired,”

“Already? We've barely gotten started,”

“Oh, the famed Grey Warden stamina, is it?” she smirks. “Well, you'll excuse me if I don't take advantage of it this time 'round. I've had a very long day, you know. Busting down doors, nearly breaking my arm, not to mention: quelling the anger of abominations struggling with existential angst,”

It's my turn to laugh, even though I can feel Justice recoil at the word, 'abominations', even in jest. “Don't forget: having your injuries healed by a charming and irresistibly handsome apostate,”

“Of course,” she sighs and pokes me in the ribs. “That's what got me into all this trouble in the first place,”

“Hey - “ I suddenly realize, “did you just say: 'this time around'?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,”

“So you're saying you want there to be a next time?” I draw out carefully, not wanting to sound overly eager.

She grins. “Got a problem with that?”

“Such a bossy woman,” I shake my head with an exaggerated sigh, “I suppose, if I must...but it's always Anders this, Anders that -”

She interrupts me with a particularly long, passionate kiss that leaves my head spinning.

“ - on second thought,” I gasp as my lips slowly part from hers, “I think I'll manage.”


	20. A Struggle of Rule

  
**Justice**   


  
The mage has been acting strangely. Contrary to his usually ravenous appetite, he seems to barely eat anything since he began spending his nights with the Hawke woman. One would think that the corresponding increase in physical activity would result in a greater need for sustenance. But this is simply not the case.

Much of the time the man spends apart from Hawke is passed by his thinking of her. Her smile, or her laugh, or the way she pushes the hair from her face. Any of the images that go through his mind are beyond anything I would prefer to recall. And they always seem to surface at the most inopportune moments. Like when he is writing. Or in the middle of healing a patient. Or even while sorting herbs. It's quite disconcerting. Not to mention, odd. You would think that he sees more than enough of her as it is.

So when another memory of Hawke causes him to trip over his own feet, I cannot restrain my annoyance.  
 _  
“What manner of human folly this is?”_

_“What? What have I done this time?”_

_“You spend a great deal of time with Marian Hawke now,”  
_  
At this, there flashes another vivid and far more intimate image of the woman, which I try to ignore. __

_“Yes, so?”_

_“Then would you kindly care to explain why it is that you think of her more frequently now than you ever did before?”_

_“Um, because I love her, Justice?” He says this like the connection should be obvious._

_“As you say, Anders: yes, so?”  
_  
He laughs but offers no other excuse.  
 _  
“You do realize, mage, that the mere thought of that woman has got you behaving like one of those drunken idiots at that filthy tavern your friends prefer to frequent,”_

_“Yes,” he declares cheerfully, “I suppose she has,” And he sets about tidying the clinic to close its doors for the night, whistling to himself as he does._

_“And you have no problem with this?”_

_“Should I?” he stoops down to pick up a used poultice off the ground._

_“Am I to understand that you are perfectly content absentmindedly stumbling around in an intoxicated stupor with the barest control over your own faculties?” I say, annoyed at his flippancy._

_“Now that's pushing it a little, don't you think, spirit?”_

_“These distractions are dangerous,” I insist. “You will come to harm in battle if you are not more careful,”_

_“I'll be perfectly fine, Justice. You know I've fought often enough over the years to be able to hold my own,”  
_  
 _But not when the stakes were so high,_   I want to say. To fight for your own survival is one thing. It is a matter of immediate practical and personal self-interest. It is instinctive. The body, not emotion, takes over. To fight for the sole purpose of protecting someone you care about, however, is another thing entirely.  
 _  
And you have never loved someone like this before._ But there is no need to say it. He already knows.  

\---

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?” Marian Hawke rolls over onto her stomach in bed, blanket twisting around her legs. She gives Anders a sly smile, resting the side of her face upon her arms. “Anything,”

He glides his fingers up and down the length of her bare spine. “If I were to get you to read something I wrote...”

“Oh?”

“...would you honestly tell me what you think of it?”

“Of course,” she replies, a look of curiosity in her eyes. “I would never lie to you,”

He tugs lightly on the back of her hair. “You promise you won't spare my feelings?”

“Honestly. Have I ever?”

“You've got a point there.” Anders slides out of bed and crosses the room to pull a copy of our manifesto from the pocket of his coat, lying discarded upon the floor. __

_“Does her opinion really matter so much to you? I cannot see that it is any of her concern -”_

_“Yes, it does. A great deal. And it most certainly does concern her if she is, as you suspect, a mage. Either way, you said it yourself: she's the strongest ally we've got in this city.”_

_“Very well. Suit yourself.”_ He's been hoping for this opportunity for some time now. Far be it from me to spoil it, as annoyed as I might be that he would value her counsel over my own.

He hands her the document and dives back under the covers beside her. She sits up and unfolds the parchment in her hands, chuckling as she starts to read. Insolent woman. What does she find so funny? Issues of life and death are no trifling matter!

“So the truth finally comes out,” she chides him, “All this time, you've been waiting to get me into bed just so you could corner me into reading a political tract. And here I was expecting love poetry -”

“Hey!” He reaches under the blanket to zap her rear end with an electricity-sparked finger, eliciting a squeal, followed by giggles. “You do realize, woman, that as we speak you hold my very heart in your hands? That right there is the product of countless gruelling days slaving away at a hard, unforgiving desk.”

Hawke snorts. “Please. Spare me the drama. You and I both know that desk is the most luxurious thing that money can buy. I made damn sure of that when I got it. Ferelden orphans don't have beds as comfortable as that thing. Spoiled brat,” she grins.

“Aha!” is the first thing in our mind and upon Anders' lips at this admission. “I knew it was you!” he points in triumph.  
 _  
“No, you didn't,” I say._

“No, you didn't,” she says, almost beating me to it. “Even after all the hints everyone was dropping,”

“What hints?”

“Exactly. Such a blonde,”  

He pokes her with another light zap. “Just read it already, silly Muffin!”

“Okay, okay,” she laughs, twitching away under his electrified touch. “but only if you stop calling me that,”

“I make no promises,” he rolls over, pulling a blanket over his shoulders in a mock huff and surreptitiously watching her read with one eye open.

The minutes pass as Anders tries to interpret the expressions on her face. I believe he actually hopes to learn what she is thinking by gauging her initial, unguarded reactions.  
 _  
“A fruitless endeavour, if you ask me.”_

_“I didn't. Oh, woe is me, no fruit for Anders.”_

_“There is no need for sarcasm, mage. I was only thinking that looks are deceiving.”_

_“Marian wouldn't lie to me...would she?”  
_  
I remind him that she has yet to admit to him her latent ability.  
 _  
“That doesn't mean anything. For all we know, she doesn't even know about it herself. Why must you always make me doubt her, spirit? She says she tells me the truth, and I believe her.”  
_  
Finally, Hawke lowers the parchment, her eyes staring up at the family crest hanging above the mantle. A slow smile spreads across her lips.

“So?” Anders asks, “What's the verdict?”

“Besides this being conclusive proof that you really do need to get out of the house more often?” she winks.

“Don't make me come over there and zap you,” he jests, hoping this will hide his disappointment in her reaction.

“No need. It's brilliant, Anders.”

“I warned you,” He moves toward her, fingertips sparking again, but once he registers the look on her face, the magic and his laughter stop as abruptly as they started. “You're...serious,”

“I am. Don't let it go to your head.”

“You're not just saying that,”

“I'm not. But might I make a suggestion?”  
 _  
“Here it comes,” I remark, and Anders can barely contain his unexpressed surprise at my sarcasm.  
_  
Instead, he nods. “Go on,”

“I think it might benefit from a kind of...I don't know, terms of reference? I mean, you repeatedly use a few rather loaded words that should probably be defined in greater detail for those who might not already hold your view.”

Anders sits up in bed, the bedsheets and his forehead creasing. “Such as?”

“'People', for one.”

“I thought that would be self-explanatory...”

“You'd think so, right? But lately I've been thinking a lot about how easy it seems for others to mistreat say, the city elves, for example – or the refugees in Darktown.

Wouldn't it be nice for a change to make a clear declaration that: they're all people, too? Same goes for the dwarves, the Dalish, the Chasind – even the Qunari, when it boils down to it. Every sentient, civilized race in Thedas. Don't they all deserve to be looked upon as having equal value and worth – even if they're not human, per se – and regardless of how different they look, how foreign their customs may be, or what social status they happen to hold?”  

“Hmm,” Anders props a knee up under his chin. “Fair enough. It has always bugged me how blatantly ignorant some people in Kirkwall are. Especially the nobles. Er, present company excepted, of course.”

“Mmhmm,” she chuckles at his embarrassment.

“They talk as though everyone impoverished or non-human is somehow a second-class citizen at best -”

“ - or an animal at worst,” Hawke finishes.

“Pretty much. In a way, I suppose a lot of what I've written about mages could really be applied to all people in general – human or not.” he grins, “Except for maybe the darkspawn,”

“No kidding,” she pokes at his arm with her index finger, “Zap! But couldn't you incorporate all that into the manifesto somehow?”

“Won't that go over well,” he shakes his head, loose hair freely tossing about his face.

Hawke reaches over and tucks the stray ends behind his ear, smirking. “About as well as the idea of granting freedom to mages, wouldn't you say?”

“Like I needed a reminder,” he sighs.

“Hey - I don't want to burst your bubble, love, but...”

“But you think this is all just a waste of time, don't you?” the mage finishes, staring at the folds of fabric draped around his waist.

“What? No!” Hawke cups her hand under his chin and tilts it up to look in his eyes. “I just think that it's all well and good to point out the problem. But once having done that, maybe you should turn your focus towards how to actually go about solving it.”  
 _  
“She doesn't understand us,”_

_“I can fight my own battles, spirit.”_

_“If you could, I wouldn't be here,”  
_  
“I thought I was doing that,” he insists, ignoring me.

“What you've got is a great...starting point, Anders,” she strokes his cheek, but he tries to turn away. “Come on. You know I want exactly what you do: equality for all people. But we also need to be realistic. The greater challenge lies in figuring out how to actually make it work.”

“So now I'm out of touch with reality.” he shuffles slightly towards the opposite end of the bed.

“That's not what I meant,” sighs Hawke, “You know as well as I do that a change of this magnitude can't happen overnight. The way I see it, our system of governance is what's at fault here.

What we really need to gain true equality is a ruler that isn't determined by who has the strongest army or who just so happened to be born to whom. Whoever governs should be the one deemed most capable regardless of race or birth. If you ask me, I think the general populous should be allowed to choose who rules over them. And whoever rules should actually represent them properly.”

She shakes her head. “The idea of someone who is rich speaking for someone who is poor, or a non-magic user determining the fate of a mage – for laws to be created by people with no real understanding of how those laws might effect the ones they govern is simply - ”  
 _  
“Unjust,” I say to Anders._

“It's just not fair,” she whispers.  
   
“I know, Marian. But how do you possibly manage that? I mean, I thought my ideas were a little on the overly-idealistic side, but -”

“Look, I don't know. But something must be done.” The parchment of the manifesto wrinkles lightly under the grip of her fingers.   

“I doubt they'll even listen to me anyway.”

“No matter what, it still needs to be said. And they must listen. Before things get much worse.”

“Believe me, it will.”


	21. Sincerely Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Left alone in Anders' Darktown clinic, Hawke tries to bring herself to reconnect with her estranged Grey Warden sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Usual Stuff:  
> All Dragon Age 2 characters are copyright (c) BioWare – many thanks to them for creating a complex and engaging fantasy world and allowing me to play in it's sandbox.
> 
> Author's Note: Many, many apologies for taking so long to continue this series; to my own surprise, I've actually started work on my own Young Adult Sci Fi/speculative fiction novel (!) but will take every “break” I need from it to finally finish Interludes and the post DA2 series I've always intended to follow after it. Like many of you, I'm still very much in love with the characters of DA2 and it's always bugged me that I haven't yet told all the stories about them that I've wanted.   
> Thank you all so much for waiting so patiently!

**Hawke**

 

"I don't think this is such a great idea."

 

"Relax. I'll be back before you know it."

 

"But what if," I grab at Anders' sleeve as he turns to go. "What if someone comes in missing a limb or got stabbed in a vital - "

 

He cuts me off with a kiss. "They'll live, Muffin. I'm just going to Tomwise's,"

 

"But - "

 

He steps out the door. "You know where I keep all the potions. Just scream if you need anything," he waves, and I can hear him chuckle under his breath, murmuring what sounds like "something-something-pussycat" as he disappears around the corner.

 

I pace around the empty clinic. I don't know why I'm so tense. Anders hasn't seen any serious patients in quite a while. And that's saying something. Darktown's been unusually docile for weeks.

 

Normally, you'd get at least one or two drunken labourers a night, stumbling in after a friendly tavern brawl gone bad. Or maybe some unlucky refugee who's found himself at the business end of a mugger's shiv. It used to happen all the time.

 

Folks around town have been, well...downright civil. I have to admit it: that worries me.

 

But then again, that's not the only thing on my mind these days. Anders' writing desk catches the corner of my eye. What's been stopping me? I sit down and stare at the dark wood surface, which Anders has kept meticulously clean and well-polished.

 

Everything is organized and has its place: quill and inkwell within optimal reach, blank parchment evenly stacked in the opposite corner, weighted down by an aged brass key that I recognize as a memento from our Deep Roads expedition.

 

My fingers tentatively trace the key's ornate edges before snatching up the quill and a clean sheet of paper. Oh, what the heck.

 

_Dear Bee,_

 

(I bite my lip and change the last "e" into a "t".)

 

_Beth._

 

(My hand hovers, unsure of itself, then decides.)

 

_Dear Bethany,_

 

_It's been awhile since I last heard from you, so I'm not sure if you got my last letter. Mother says she sent it with hers, but you know how forgetful she can be sometimes._

 

_Are the Wardens treating you all right? You haven't really said much about it, but I guess that's not surprising. I know they're a pretty secretive bunch. So if you can't say anything, I understand._

 

_Everyone misses you._

 

_Varric has been asking after his "Sunshine", so be sure to include some interesting tidbits in your next letter just for him. I can tell he doesn't ask about you anywhere near as often as he'd like. I know he's only trying to avoid bringing you up in conversation for Merrill's sake (and maybe even mine)._

 

_But then he's also been rather preoccupied with family matters lately. Not too long ago, he asked me to help resolve some loose ends out at his estate, where we had another run-in with Bartrand._

 

_Remember that lyrium idol he stole in the Deep Roads? Well, I'm afraid it made him go quite mad (why is it that when it comes to people I meet, "insanely mad" also means "insanely, magically powerful"?!) Well, we came close to killing the poor sod. As conniving as that dwarf was, you couldn't help feeling sorry for him._

_Plus, being Varric's brother and all..._

 

_Thankfully, Anders was able to cure Bartrand - at least as much as was possible. Poor Varric. I don't think I'd ever seen a grown dwarf so close to tears before. Nor a dwarf so appreciative of magic. I guess it shouldn't surprise me that the two of them have become pretty chummy since then. Varric and Anders, I mean. It's really nice to see Anders get out more often fo a change and well, not you know, isolate himself so much._

 

_Anyway, on a much lighter note: Varric and Isabela have been talking about collaborating on a trashy romantic novella about a heroine that sounds a bit like you (plus some significant creative license taken on their part, of course). Right now, their working title is "Deep Roads" - yes, innuendo fully intended. I am so sorry. Yet not sorry enough to completely dissuade them from the project, if only because I know that they'd turn to my life for inspiration next._

 

_Maker help them if they try._

 

_Merrill is the same as always. Whenever I see her, she asks if I've heard anything new from you. Even if you don't get the chance to write back to me, I hope you'll consider sending her a letter instead - I know she misses having another female mage around._

 

_We were even in the market the other day and she got all excited about this carved oak staff Jean Luc was selling that she thought you'd like. She was ready to part with her entire share of coin from our last job just to buy it for you until Anders assured her that the Wardens would never allow you to receive such a gift. Which is a shame, really - she was quite broken-hearted over it, but then (typical Merrill) it didn't take long for something else to grab her attention._

 

_Fenris has retreated into one of his moods again; he's cloistered himself in that derelict mansion of his with his umpteen bottles of wine and cobweb-ridden corpses and refuses to come out. I'm hoping he gets over it soon, because up until recently, he was actually becoming what you'd almost call social: even going so far as to play Diamondback with Varric and the boys at least once a week._

 

_And while I don't miss hearing how much Anders lost to him at cards, I do wish Fenris would confide in me again. It seemed like we were really becoming good friends until -_

 

(I stop to blow a stray wisp of hair from my eyes.)

 

_well, he just hasn't been the same since he found out that he has a sister._

 

("Finding out about Anders didn't help, either," I mutter under my breath.)

 

_I can't imagine what he must be going through right now. I mean, he chose revenge over the chance to know how to find his only remaining blood relative._

 

_It just goes to show how little I understand people, Bee. What does it take to make someone so consumed with anger that they're willing to turn away from their own flesh and blood? Vengeance may sate your anger for a time, but in the end, what does that leave you? To me, having a family gives me hope for a future. I don't know. Maybe I'm just naive._

 

_Okay, so I know I'm naive. Or maybe just shallow. I honestly think I spend less time contemplating how Fenris is doing and more time trying to conceive of a female-version of Fenris. I mean, how much more effeminate can someone be? It's weird - it makes me think that just to have balance in the universe, his sister must somehow be built like a brick house and have facial hair. In other words, maybe she's an elven version of Aveline?_

 

_Oy. Listen to me: I've definitely been hanging out with Isabela too much!_

 

_Speaking of Aveline, did you know that she’s been promoted to Captain of the city guard? Bet you saw that coming too, huh? If something’s broken, you can be sure that woman’s ready to step in and fix it. Or do the breaking (if you’re on the wrong side of the law)._

 

_As for which side of the law your sister and her merry band of misfits have been staying on, well...let’s just say that it’s often a matter of perspective. Or interpretation._

 

“I’ll say,” Anders declares over my shoulder, startling me enough to nearly cause me to draw my blade. (All right, so I almost fell off my chair - breathe a word of it and I swear I’ll deny it to the grave!)

 

Seeing my reaction, he bursts out laughing. “I understand now why Varric does that.”

 

I swat at him with the feathered end of the quill. “And just how long have you been standing there?”

 

“Long enough to notice that you’ve barely written anything about me,” he smirks, trying to sneak another peek at my letter as I lean over to cover it with my arm.

 

“Nonsense,” I insist, “I’ve mentioned you plenty,”

 

“Oh?” My lover folds his arms. “Is that so?”

 

“’Tis.” I point out all the places I’d written his name on the letter. “See? Here, and here, and here...you’re in here at least five times.”

 

“Well, you may have _occasionally_ dropped my name in passing, love. But at least admit that you still haven’t told her about _us_.”

 

I sigh and lower the letter. “I was just getting around to that. Honest. I guess I just...I just don’t want to be all, I don’t know...in her face about it.”

 

“Oh? What do you mean?” he pulls over a stool to sit beside me. “It’s not like you to beat around the bush,”

 

“Well, you know Bee always wanted the quiet life. She always hated living on the edge, not knowing if we’d live another day. I can’t help feeling a little...guilty talking about my life now. Here I am: in that huge estate, with Mother, with you...while she’s out there...”

 

“It’s all right, lover. Take your time.” He leans over to plant a kiss on the nape of my neck and the warmth of his breath gently brushes my cheek.

 

I stare down at the parchment and my eyes come to rest on just a few words:

 

_...she misses having another female mage around._

 

Anders and my sister are the last two people on Thedas I’d ever want to lie to, but I can’t help it.

 

And secrets, lies - they’re just another kind of concealed weapon. While people may keep secrets for all sorts of reasons, in the end they’re all the same: they lie to protect what’s most precious to them.

 

The majority of people in this broken world make a living out of telling and selling lies of some kind or another. The rich use them to guard their wealth. The poor use them to guard their survival.

 

Some people lie to themselves to protect their pride. Others lie to everyone else just to protect their image.

 

And me? I couldn’t care less about any of those things. I know what’s most precious to me. And as long as I live, I will do whatever it takes - and use any and all weapons I have at my disposal - to protect them.

 

“Marian?” Anders kneels down beside me, his expression serious now as I dip the quill into the inkwell one last time. “Anything we need to talk about?”

 

_Maker be with you, little sister._

_Always remember how much we love you,_

 

_\- Marian and_

 

I smile at Anders, hand him the quill and gesture that it’s his turn to sign.

 

“Not at all.”


	22. Cause and Effect

**Hawke**

 

It’s almost winter again and Kirkwall is buzzing with activity. The townsfolk hurry about the square, arranging their provisions for the long, cold months to come.

 

But this time something’s different. As I make my way down the steps from the Viscount’s Keep, I can sense it.

 

It’s in the way the Viscount asked about the missing Qunari. It’s in something that was behind Aveline’s stoic eyes as I left.

 

It’s in The Hanged Man’s watered down stew. It’s in the language of Varric’s trigger finger when he sits down to a hand of Diamondback. And if anything that dwarf says can be trusted, it’s definitely in the Qunari ships that now seem to dock daily. 

 

It tingles in the air. It makes my skin crawl with anticipation. I can’t see it, but I can almost smell it. It tells me to be ready. I just wish I knew how.

 

But the one thing I do know is that it reminds me of that winter. The winter when everything changed.

 

“Father,” I asked as we trudged our way through the thick layer of snow that covered the path downhill into the village. His cloaked figure walked on ahead, the fur edge of his coat trailing lightly in the snow behind him. “Can I ask you something?”

 

He turned to me and grinned, his breath curling into feathery wisps through his teeth. “I don’t know, Marian. _Can_ you?”

 

As usual, I groaned. “You know what I mean, Father.”

 

“Well, of course my dear,”

 

I hurried a little to catch up. This would take some doing. I gusted out a sigh.

 

“What’s on your mind, child?” He slowed down to walk beside me.

 

“I...” I buried my hands deeper into my pockets and grasped at the soft warmth of the fur lining. “I need - I need to know, Father. I know you’ve been training Bethany in secret.”

 

“Well, I suppose it’s not much of a secret anymore,” he chuckled, his eyes glinting like specks of snow in the light. “I should’ve known you two wouldn’t keep anything from each other.” He murmured, “Thick as thieves, you girls are. As it should be, I imagine. But if only you’d let your mother take the role of confidante once in a while...”

 

“Please don’t change the subject, Father.”

 

He must have sensed the irritation in my voice, for all he said was, “Very well, Marian. Then say what you must.”

 

I stopped walking. “I need to know how. Beth won’t tell me anything. And whatever it is that’s important enough to train her in secret, I want to learn, too. I need to learn. I need to get stronger. Please.” I dropped to a knee. “Train me, too.” I lowered my eyes to the ground.

 

From inside my woolen hood, I only heard the muffled crunching of footsteps and felt Father lean over and gently urge me back up.

 

“Come, child.”

 

“But - ”

 

He brought his head close to mine and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Not yet, Marian,” His eyes flitted back and forth, quickly scanning the trees and the path both ahead and behind us. “Not here. Come. Let us see if there might be pheasant about,” he declared loudly and reached for the staff from his back. “Perhaps we’ll even catch a nice hare, hmm? Wouldn’t your mother like that?”

 

I followed him as we made our way off the road and deeper into the forest. Soon, we came across a fallen log nestled behind some thick brush and Father swept away the snow before gesturing that we should sit.

 

He shoved his staff, which he used as a walking stick, into the ground at his feet and drew out his longbow instead. I reached behind me to do the same, and after readying the quiver, rested my bow on my knees in waiting. 

 

“Marian, do you remember that little excitement we had last month with the hearth?”

 

“How could I ever forget? The whole house nearly caught on fire! It’s a good thing we had Mother’s bathwater handy.”

 

“Yes, that was definitely fortunate. But can you recall what made the fire spread so quickly in the first place?”

 

I closed my eyes and thought back. Father was seated to my right, flipping through the pages of some old tome. Mother was beside him, a needle in her hand, sewing a patch onto the elbow of a shirt - my shirt. Bethany and Carver...what were they doing? Oh yes - they sat at our feet playing. I think Carver was trying to steal one of Beth’s dolls. The dirty rotter.

 

I shrugged. “The fire just got out of control all of a sudden. I guess I’ve never really thought about it,”

 

“Ah, but remember your teaching, child. Everything in the natural world has a cause.”

 

“But I don’t think I saw anything cause it. It just...happened.”

 

“Yet in your experience, the hearth fire normally behaves itself, does it not?”

 

“Yes, of course, Father,” I resisted rolling my eyes.

 

“And we didn’t put on any more wood than usual, correct?”

 

“I don’t think we did.”

 

“So what happened?”

 

“I don’t know. One second Beth was yelling at Carver, the next: boom!”

 

“Aha!” He slapped his knee.

 

“Father, you don’t seriously mean to suggest that Bethany’s yelling at Carver caused the blaze, do you? You’ve said yourself that just because one event takes place before another, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the prior event was the cause. Besides, that’s impossible.”

 

“Is it, now?”

 

“Well, of course,”

 

“And why, pray tell, is it impossible?” He smiled.

 

“Well,” I laughed, “for starters, no one has ever seen such things happen. Ever.”

 

“They haven’t?”

 

“Now you’re just teasing me, Father. Of course they haven’t. If it _were_ possible, don’t you think people would be setting their homes on fire all the time?”

 

At this, he laughed as well. “Perhaps, child. But you’re forgetting one very important thing.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Not all causes can be seen.”

 

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Father, but I’ll believe it when I see it. Besides, what has all this to do with training me?”

 

“Patience, child,” He sighed and murmured something else I couldn’t quite make out.

 

“Please stop treating me like a child, Father,” I stuck my bottom lip out.

 

He cocked his head in that way he often did when he was about to say something quite curious.

 

But instead, he stayed silent. I suppose my fragile teenage ego was grateful he did. We sat there together in the still of the winter for a moment when the only sound that could be heard was the breeze whisking lightly through the tips of the tree branches.

 

A final, stronger gust of wind pushed my Father’s already drooping hood back from his face to settle in soft folds around his chin.

It was only then that I noticed the silver streaks at his temples and how the skin around his cheeks looked a little tight.

 

“Now what,” he asked, “caused that?”

 

“Hmm?” I honestly hadn’t been paying attention.

 

“What do you think caused my hood to fall just now?”

 

“The wind, of course.”

 

“But how do you know it was the wind? Or that the wind even exists if you can’t see it?”

 

“Well,” I began, deliberately pausing to chew on my thoughts as I spoke, “we know it’s the wind because we can...experience what it can do. Even if we can’t actually _see_ it, we _can_ see how it moves things - like the leaves in the trees, or your hood just now.

 

We can also _feel_ the wind upon us as well. And we know - from experience, of course - that these are all sorts of things that we can expect the wind to do, right?”

 

“So in other words, Marian, you’re saying that we can also know a thing exists in two ways: we can identify it by witnessing evidence of its characteristics - its properties - and can observe its effects on other things; all in spite of the thing, or cause, itself being unseen or invisible.”

 

“I...I guess so. But - I’m sorry, Father - I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with Beth, or the fire, or her quarrel with Carver,”

 

At this, he sighed and leaned on his staff briefly to rise to his feet, dusting snow from his lap as he did.

 

“Then I suppose there’s no other way around it,” Father said, almost seeming to address someone else. He glanced again around the woods and removed one of his gloves, raising his bare hand in front of him.

 

Suddenly, there was a flash of light as a patch of brush several feet in front of us ignited and in the blink of an eye, was completely engulfed in flames. I got up with a start and watched as its branches crackled in the heat until there was nothing left of the tiny bush but smoke rising from the blackened ground where it once grew.

 

My father turned to me with a gentle smile as I stood, staring mesmerized at the ashes in disbelief.

 

“Now what, my dear, could have caused _that_?”

 


	23. Diagnosis

_The Usual Stuff:_

_All Dragon Age 2 characters are copyright (c) BioWare – many thanks to them for creating a complex and engaging fantasy world and allowing me to play in it's sandbox._

**  
Anders**

 

“ _Your woman has been - how do you humans put it - reticent, as of late, don’t you think?” Justice says._

 

“ _What of it?” I ask._

 

“ _Don’t you think you should say something?”_

 

I continue to watch Marian, frozen in mid-stride on our way down from the Viscount’s Keep. I follow her long stare upwards into the drifts of snowflakes that fall in slow spirals to rest upon her hair and shoulders. She’s been that way for at least a good two minutes now.

 

It’s an image I know I’ll take to my grave, and I’ll be damned if anything or anyone is going to ruin it. Even me.

 

“ _Well?”_

 

“ _My, you’re impatient today, Justice. Just leave it be. You know she’s got a lot on her mind. First the unsolved murders of those women, and now this business with the Qunari._

 

_Not only have they got her chasing about playing detective, but now it’s like they expect her to be some kind of diplomat as well. She’s in way over her head and she knows it.”_

 

“ _Admit it, Anders,” he says, “you’re jealous.”_

 

“ _That’s preposterous. Of whom, exactly? The murderer, or the Viscount?” I snicker._

 

“ _Of no one. You know what I mean,”_

 

“ _No, I don’t. And I don’t care for your insinuations, either. If you know what’s best, you’ll keep your non-corporeal nose out of my business.”_

 

“ _Or what, mage? You’ll leave?” he laughs._

 

“ _You’re awfully impertinent these days,”_

 

“ _You’re jealous of her time. Certainly, you’re together often. But it’s always at the behest of others, running around on all these fool errands._

 

_What you really desire is her undivided attention. Love truly has made you as weak and pathetic as -”_

 

“ _Be silent, you damnable spirit.”_

 

“ _You know what I say is - ”_

 

“ _I said, that’s enough!”_

 

I step towards Marian and wrap my arms around her waist. “Hey,” I murmur into her neck.

 

She jumps at my touch. “What? Oh. Maker,” she mutters. “Not again. I am so sorry, Anders. You should have said something.”

 

“Distracted much lately?” I say with a chuckle.

 

She shakes her head. “Don’t you know it,”

 

“Well, my dear,” I grab her by the hand. “As your acting physician it is my sworn duty to inform you that this simply will not do.”

 

“Is that so?” she laughs, trailing after me down the steps.

 

I continue to lead her out of Hightown at a brisk pace. “I’m afraid your health is at stake and there is but one remedy I can prescribe,”

 

“This sounds dire indeed, good doctor. But you must tell me: what are my chances of recovery?”

 

I don’t stop until we’ve reached the bridge into Lowtown.  
  


“Extremely good,” I say. “But it requires that you obey my instructions implicitly,”


	24. Remedy

**Justice**

 

At the edge of Lowtown, Hawke finally stops him. “All right. Where are we going?”

“Nowhere, my love,” Anders replies. “We’re here.”

She glances around, brow furrowed. “Well then, what - “

“Shush!” He pulls her towards the stone wall railing and leans over the edge, looking out onto the banks of the river. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that patience is a virtue?”

“And if I actually listened to her, you know I wouldn’t be here right now with the likes of you,” She bumps him with her shoulder.

“I’m hurt,” He pouts. “Even after all that time spent slaving away in the kitchen for her, she still prefers that wanker, Angus Bran?”  
  
“There’s no accounting for taste, now is there?”

“Well, from now on, that woman can cook her own damn breakfast,” Anders says, laughing.

“No, really, Anders - what are we doing here? I thought this was supposed to cheer me up,” She looks around and sighs.

I can imagine what she's thinking. It's still the same old Lowtown: a city built on mudrock, metal and murder with its dirty streets, dirty slums and dirtier people; only marginally less squalor than the undercity. Perhaps seeing it only brings back memories of living here, not so long ago. Or perhaps it is an unwanted reminder that these quests of hers – however well meaning - might actually be futile. 

“ _We should go, Anders. Being here is clearly upsetting her.”_

“I'm sorry, love,” She says, seeming to answering my thoughts. “It's just a little...depressing. Let's just go home,” 

“Not before you tell me what's wrong.”

“Seriously? Look around.” She throws her hands up in the air. “What _isn't_ wrong?” 

She starts to turn away.  
  
“Wait!” He grabs her arm. “You trust me, don't you?”  
  
“You know I do.” 

“Then if you don't want to talk about it, can you at least stay? Just for a little bit?”

“But why?”

“Just wait. And listen,”

She settles herself against the snow-covered bridge in a huff, her folded arms pushing a pile of snowflakes over the edge like a fluffy, white waterfall. She leans over, watching them drift down into the cloudy, grey river below.

Anders leans over and wraps his arms around her waist, holding the warmth of her tightly against him. “It’ll be worth it, love. I promise,” he whispers.

“ _Why are we dawdling here, Anders? Much work remains to be done. She knows this.”_

“ _Look, the same goes for you. Just watch and learn, spirit. Watch and learn.”_  
  
“Need I remind you that I have lived for generations, and that when you are long dead, I shall still exist – far longer than a mere mortal like you could imagine? So there is nothing in this world of yours that you could possibly ever - “  
  
“No.”

“ _What?”_

“ _The answer is no, Justice.”_

“ _Why, you little - “_  
  
“No, you need not remind me, and no, you're wrong: there's always something to learn. Even for you.”

I allow Anders the last word. This time. Let the human have his pathetic delusions. Let him have this pointless little romance and let him play house with his lover. In the end, all mortal endeavours are ultimately meaningless. I will outlast them all.

A group of children ventures closer to the water’s edge, pairs of skates dangling over their shoulders as they peer at the river. 

“Aww!” They exclaim when they discover it still remains unfrozen. Some stop to throw stones into its murky depths before turning to trudge away.

“Oy!” Anders calls to them over the railing. One of the boys looks up. “Don’t go too far, now.”

The boy laughs and runs away to catch up with his friends.

“What in the Void was all that about?” Hawke asks Anders.

He shrugs. “They shouldn’t give up so quickly, is all. You never know,”

“Okaaay,” she says, feeling his forehead with the back of her hand. “And I thought I was the one here needing medical attention,”

Anders grins down at her. “What? Sick of my particular ‘brand of crazy’ so soon?”

Hawke laughs. “Not so long as you keep doing what you do best, magic man.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

Behind us, we hear the clanking of metal and the creak of wheels rattling over the cobblestone. Anders nods and smiles at the wrinkled old man pushing a rickety wooden cart with dozens of mugs hanging around a giant black kettle.

“Best cider in all of Kirkwall, Ol’ Sam’s got,” He remarks to Hawke. “How’s business today, my good Ser?”

Old Sam shakes his head. “As rotten as all me apples be, Serah, if this blighted warm spell keeps up. Folks dun wan’ cider if the weather ain’t cold enough,”   
  
“I don’t believe it,” Anders declares. “Those blokes in Hightown don’t know what they’re missing.”

Hawke smiles, reaching for her coin purse. “Well, let’s have us a mug or two, then.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Serah, but the cider’s gone cold now,” he taps the side of the large, cast iron kettle. “I’s was gonna take it home to the missus to warm it up ‘gain,”

“But if you do that, you’re going to miss all your potential customers,” Anders says.

Old Sam looks around the nearly empty market square before giving Anders a withering look, unimpressed at the idea of being teased. It seems the other Lowtown merchants haven’t been having the best day, either.

“Anders,” mutters Hawke, “there’s no need to be sarcastic.”

“But I’m not,” Anders insists. “I’m serious.”

“Well, he must think you’re mad.”

For a moment, I’m almost convinced that Anders is as well.

“I’m sorry, Ser.” He says to the man. “I honestly meant no disrespect. I just think you might be a bit early in calling it a day. Besides,” he touches the kettle, “it seems that the cider’s warmer than you thought.”

Now the man really gives Anders a look that says - as I believe his friends would say - _“You’re rutting insane.”_ Still, he reaches out to touch the kettle for himself. His expression changes abruptly as he jerks his hand back in surprise. He stares in disbelief at the wisps of steam seeping out from the top of the kettle to curl upwards around the massive lid.

“Well, I’ll be!” The old man exclaims. “I coulda sworn it’d gone stone cold. Ain’t that somethin’.” He shakes his head. “But dun tell the missus, now. She’ll think I’m losin’ me wits,”

“Pshaw! I’m sure you’re just tired after a long day. Now how about that cuppa?”

With mugs of Kirkwall's finest cider in hand, Anders and Hawke watch Old Sam as he pushes his cart into the square and towards the merchant stalls, whistling a jaunty tune.

“ _And I suppose now you'll tell me that was an appropriate use of a fire spell, mage?”_

Anders lifts the mug to his lips and draws in a long, deep breath of it’s spiced aroma before taking a sip. I can feel the sweet, hot liquid pass his lips and slide smoothly down his throat and into his belly where the warmth of it spreads a tingle through his back and out to the very tips of his toes.

He smiles, recognizing the same contented expression on Hawke’s face as she slowly sips her own cider, eyes closed, the warmth bringing a rosy glow to her cheeks.

Anders sighs. _“Absolutely,” he tells me._

He leans over and gives Hawke a quick peck on the nose before handing her his mug, “Hold this for me, won’t you, love?”

Startled, Hawke asks, “Where _you_ off to?”

“I’ll be right back. Oh, and one more thing: I need you to close your eyes.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s a surprise, silly. Just promise,”

She sighs, but complies nonetheless. “Okay, but - “

“You stay right there. No peeking! And - as tempting as it is - don’t even _think_ of drinking my cider,” he says, watching to make sure her eyes are still closed and tiptoes away and scrambles down under the bridge and out of sight.

Daylight is slowly fading. The sun has begun to dip below the horizon, it’s muted rays stretching orange and pink across the stone of the buildings and into the riverbank. It won’t be long now before the merchant stalls close and the market is completely deserted.

Anders glances around. There’s no one in sight. This is promising, he thinks to himself.

“ _You are wasting your time, mage. Not to mention your energy. And you still don’t know if this half-brained idea of yours will even work.”_

“ _Oh, come on, Justice. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? You have to admit, it’s for a good cause. For once, can you please try not to be such a - I don’t know - a stick-in-the-mud?”_

I’m surprised by the way that name rankles me. I remember how irritating it was when that dwarf, Varric, once referred to me that way.

“ _Very well, mage. Have it your way. If it fails, you cannot blame me.”_

Anders takes a deep breath and clears his mind. In moments, he has opened the door to the Fade within him, and magic is flowing through it and out his fingertips.

I can feel his intent. It flows in and through me with mana. I join with him, filling each of his limbs with my presence until both of our magics move as one, like two sets of hands grasping the same heavy rope, pulling in unison with all of our strength. But instead of a rope, we are pulling at the river.

No, we have become the river. How else to explain how it feels when we draw a stream of water up and over the riverbank and push it, inch by inch until it winds its way into the market. I can almost feel myself in the water - as though it is me, snaking my way through the cracks in the pavement.  
  
Anders’ energy is flagging, but we don’t stop until the water pools itself into a round lake right in the middle of the square.

Then, calling upon an ice spell, Anders stoops down to place his palm onto the water. We feel the hard coldness beneath it spread faster and faster along the ground until the pool of water we’ve created is completely frozen over.

After this, Anders stumbles slightly and nearly falls to one knee in exhaustion.

“ _Wait,” he says. “There’s one more thing.”_

Somehow, he manages to pull himself up along the riverbank, grabbing at the underside of the bridge above to steady himself. With one last burst of concentration, he closes his eyes and thrusts his hand upwards, sending focused sparks of fire from each of his fingertips.

When Anders finally looks up, he sees the boy from before, staring bug-eyed and slack-jawed in awe.

“ _I told you this was a bad idea,” I say._  
  
Anders straightens himself up to his full height and adjusts the cuffs of his coat. He walks up the riverbank past the boy, smiling. Then he holds his finger to his mouth and winks. “Don’t forget your skates, boy.” 

With a huge grin, the boy lets out a gleeful whoop and runs up the riverbank, ice skates in tow.

“Aww, you opened your eyes! Silly Muffin,” Anders says when we rejoin Hawke back at the foot of the bridge.

“Sorry, love. I couldn’t help it, what with all the commotion. Where were you, anyway?”

“Nowhere special,” He says. “What did I miss?”

“See for yourself,” Hawke links her arm in his and steers him towards the Lowtown market square, now filling with people.

The lanterns above have all been lit. They cast their warm glow upon the square below, which has been transformed into a large, round skating rink. Children are lacing up their skates and have eagerly begun gliding around, chasing each other across the ice and filling the once-quiet square with laughter.

“You...wouldn’t by chance have anything to do with this, would you?” Hawke gives Anders a sly, sidelong glance.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Muffin,” He replies, trying to hide a smirk.

“ _I suppose...”_  
  
“Yes, Justice?”

“ _I change my mind.”_

“ _Oh?”_

“ _This was a good idea after all.”  
_

All around, the merchants are getting into the spirit, happily welcoming all the people who’ve come out of the surrounding homes and into the square to see what all the hubbub is about. Across the way, Old Sam’s apple cider cart is lined up with customers. He beams with a toothy grin and waves when he sees us. The snow has begun to fall again.

“Well, c’mon then! What are you waiting for?” Anders grabs Hawke by the hand and pulls her across the ice.

“Hey!” she says, giggling as she slides along behind him. When he stops abruptly to face her, she begins to skid. “Whoa!” She slams into him full force and sends him tumbling backwards. She trips and gets pulled down right with him.

“Oof!”

They lie there in a tangled heap in the middle of the ice and begin to laugh hysterically.

Hawke leans over him, her blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Above her, falling snowflakes crown her head with soft, sparkling light.

“ _Yup,” Anders says to me, “definitely worth it.”_


	25. The One Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Usual Stuff:
> 
> All Dragon Age 2 characters are copyright (c) BioWare – many thanks to them for creating a complex and engaging fantasy world and allowing me to play in it's sandbox.

**Hawke**

 

A normal person would cry.

 _The battle is over, Hawke_ , I tell myself. It’s over. You can show her how you feel now. It’s all right. No one would blame you for crying.

But even as I kneel here in the dirt with Mother in my arms, I can’t. Even as I touch her cheek and in disbelief feel it already growing cold, I can’t. And even though “I love you,” still echoes through the caverns; even while the last of her words ring in my ears - the very words I’d longed to hear her say since childhood: “You’ve always made me proud”; after all that, still...nothing. The tears won’t come. And I don’t know why.

I do know that I can’t bear to look at her - not the way she is now. So I look up and it’s worse: I see Anders, Varric and Fenris standing there. And as I look into their eyes, I can tell what they’re thinking, staring at me, at Mother - what’s left of her.

I see the dwarf’s lips move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I see Anders fall to his knees beside me, but I can’t feel his embrace. I see the elf look away. But I don’t blame him - I would turn away too, if I could.

When we leave, I refuse to let the men carry her body. I can do it alone. It’s so light. Like it weighs nothing. Nothing at all.

\---

**Anders**

 

There was nothing I could do.

I could only stand there: helpless. Useless. And as the love of my life watched her own mother die, all I could manage to say was, “I’m sorry.”

All this power inside me...and for what? What’s the point if I can’t even protect the ones I love?

“ _The woman was already dead, Anders,” Justice says - the closest he’s ever come to being consoling. “It was too late to save her. We were all too late. And even your anger cannot make you strong enough to turn back time. No one can.”_

Time.

It’s been two days since we came back from Quentin’s lair. Without a word to anyone, even me, Marian took up his vase of white lilies and smashed it against the wall before locking herself away in her mother’s room.

All the while, I’ve been unable to quell the ache within; the sharp pangs in my chest that nearly overcome me whenever I hear her muffled weeping behind the door.

Useless. I’m utterly useless.

“Won’t she have anything to eat?” Bodahn asks me again, this time carrying a bed tray with a bowl of Marian’s favourite stew and a mug of tea.

“I’ll see that she does,” I say, taking the tray from him. “Don’t you worry,”

“Oh, I’m not so worried about _her_. I know Mistress Hawke can take care of herself. But you, pacing about at all hours without a wink of sleep...”

I force a laugh. “I’ll be fine, my good dwarf. But thanks,”

“Will you tell her about the letter from the Keep?” He asks, eyeing the ornately sealed scroll he’s strategically placed next to the soup spoon.

“In good time.”

“But - ”

“They should bugger off,” I growl. “Can’t the blighters see she’s in mourning?”

“With all due respect, Master Anders, they said it was an urgent, personal matter from the Viscount himself that only Serah Hawke can attend to.”

I sigh. What could they want that can’t possibly wait?

“I’ll try.”

At the bedroom door, I set the tray down and knock.

“Marian?”

There’s no response.

I test the door handle. It’s still locked.

“Muffin? It’s me. Please let me in,”

Still silence.

I grip the doorknob in my hand, infusing it with mana until it has grown painfully cold to the touch. But that doesn’t matter right now. Once it has been completely imbued with ice, I bear my weight down on it. The frozen doorknob and with it, the lock, snap off in my hand.

When I enter the room, Marian is curled up on the rumpled bed, knees tucked under her chin. I feel that familiar twinge in my chest to see her stare back at me with dark circles beneath her eyes and a puffy, reddened nose.

“Sorry, love,” I say, sheepishly holding up the broken doorknob. “I guess I sort of wrecked your door.”

Her shoulders move up and down. “I guess now this makes us even.”

\---

**Justice**

 

Anders climbs into the bed and curls himself up against her. She sighs, and settling back into his chest, pulls his arms tighter around her.

I know this feeling...I can remember Kristoff and Aura, holding each other, just like this. No words were needed then, either.

Hawke and Anders stay like this in silence for several minutes before Hawke whispers, “I can’t sleep.”

Anders kisses the nape of her neck. “I know.”

“Whenever I close my eyes, all I can see is that trail of blood. And at the end of it: Mother, staggering towards me like that,” Her voice wavers, trembling stronger as she says, “...her face, all grey and - “

“Shh,” He says. “It’s all right. It’s over now. I’m here for you. We’ll get through this.”

She chokes back a sob. “I know. I killed that bastard...”

“He deserved what he got.”

“Yes, but you know what? For the first time, I actually enjoyed it. Killing someone. A _human being_.” Her voice rises to a near shout. “I _relished_ sending him to the Void for what he did to her.”

“ _He_ was a monster. We all saw what he did - to all of them. All for his own selfish -”

“What makes me any different?”

“You can’t begin to even -”

“I killed him. I killed him, Anders! So why won’t the pain go away?” She wails, her body convulsing into a tighter ball.

Anders only holds her closer. Neither he, nor I, can think of a single thing to say.

\---

 

**Hawke**

 

I cry myself to sleep in Anders’ arms.

I know this because I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. That’s right. It’s all just a bad dream. When I wake up, Mother will be here. Just like always.

Any minute now, she'll storm in and scold me for being in her room. Then she'll wrinkle her nose like she always does and say, “Marian Amell Hawke, get your filthy boots off my bed this instant! A lady's boudoir is no place for armour or weapons and you know it. Now get yourself cleaned up – I expect you to be dressed properly by the time Bodahn has dinner ready,”

But she doesn't. Instead, I can hear her and Father’s muffled voices as they had quarrelled on the other side of the wall; the wall that separated our bedrooms in the old cottage back in Lothering.

“This has to stop, Malcolm. It’s too much. They’re only _girls_.” Mother had said to him then.

“And soon they’ll be women, Leandra. And by then it will be too late.”

  “But this training - it’s hurting them. Can’t you see? They’re just too proud to tell you so. First Bethany’s bruises, and now Marian’s black eye...the villagers are beginning to talk.”

“Let them talk. If it gets too bad, we’ll leave.”

“Not again. I’m tired of running, Malcolm. The children need consistency. They need us to set down roots. _I_ need us to set down roots.”

“Not if it means risking our family’s safety,”

“But you’re risking their safety _right now_. Can you at least promise me you’ll go easy on them from now on?”

“Leandra, the real world will never go easy on them. Especially not once it discovers the...gift they’ve inherited from us. They’ll need to become much stronger if they’re going to survive. We’re not always going to be around to protect them, you know.”

Mother was silent for several moments and then said, “I know. But how I wish to the Maker he had never made magic. How could he allow this to happen to us?”

“Only the Maker knows, my dear.” My father said and sighed. “We just have to trust him, do our best to teach the children all they need to know and hope he’ll watch over them when we can’t.”

“Malcolm?”    
  
“Yes, dear?”

“Why must you push Marian so hard? She has no magic, yet it seems like you make her work even harder than Bethany.”

“I...don’t know, dear. I guess it’s just a feeling I’ve got.”

“A feeling?”

“Yes. A gut feeling.”

“Malcolm, you're not making any sense,”    
  
“I've just got this feeling that Marian thrives on struggle.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Now hear me out, Leandra. It's just a theory, mind you, but I'm almost certain that Marian is strongest when she has to dig deep and really fight. I’m not sure, but I think it’s when there’s something she desperately wants or there’s something she wants desperately to protect.

Don’t tell her I said this, but I honestly think that she has the ability to become stronger than all of us combined. And one day, that power of hers may very well save our lives,”

“Malcolm, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. It frightens me,”

“I’m sorry, dear. I won’t mention it again.” He had said, true to his word until the day he died.

“Whatever the case, the girl’s got untapped potential. I know it. I just need to find a way to bring it out.”

  ---   
  


“Father...” 

 “Marian?”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” I gasp, unable to prevent the tears from filling my eyes.

“Marian! Are you all right?” Anders squeezes my shoulder and murmurs in my ear. “You’re talking in your sleep,”

But it’s too late. Nightmare or not, I know now that Mother is never coming back. The tears stream down my cheeks. Half awake, I hear myself say, “I’m sorry I failed you.”


End file.
